


with the wild wolves around you

by youngbloodbuzz



Series: The Matryoshka Principle [2]
Category: Agent Carter (TV), Marvel Cinematic Universe, Nikita (TV 2010)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - 1950s, Cold War, Crossover, Espionage, F/F, F/M, Friends to Lovers, Leviathan - Freeform, Red Room, Red Scare, Slow Burn, Temporarily Unrequited Love, Unreliable Narrator, Unresolved Sexual Tension, everybody lies and everything hurts, noir
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-08-15
Updated: 2015-09-07
Packaged: 2018-04-14 22:16:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 23,509
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4582122
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/youngbloodbuzz/pseuds/youngbloodbuzz
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>With SHIELD and the intelligence community scrambling to uncover a Soviet nuclear bomb threat in New York in 1951, Peggy's hands become tied even further when another conspiracy threatens not only Angie's life, but the very foundation of their friendship.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> here we go folks, it's part two and shit gets real. we’re going backwards in time in this one, so buckle in and hold on to your butts.
> 
> thank you theseerasrures for being a dino beta and asking the real questions
> 
> (there's also prolly a ridiculous amount of historical stuff in here because i can't seem to help myself, so if your confused about anything just hop in my tumblr askbox with your questions)
> 
> this is also my contribution for cartinelli week. i know i implied in ghosts that angie would be the one to tell this story, but it's so much more fun in peggy's perspective.

She waits for her date at the bar, her eyes peering over her large glasses around the room as she takes a sip of her cocktail. The room is smoky and full with patrons getting afterwork drinks as a small band plays on a low stage in one corner, the sound just above the soft murmuring of Russian and English.

 _The Blue Parlor_ was a rather quaint sort of bar, hidden in the basement of an alcove in Sheepshead Bay. It wasn’t her first option for the setting of a third date, but it did provide the perfect atmosphere for their meetings. It was where she had met him, when she had first decided to bite the bullet and step into the nearly empty bar with her shoulders hunched and her eyes to the floor.

She had forlornly sat at the bar alone for only eight minutes when he stepped up next to her, requesting a drink from the bartender and another one of her cocktails to put on his tab. He had blue eyes that crinkled when he smiled and brown slicked hair with strands drooping over his forehead after a long day at the office; it was both remarkably boyish and charming. She had felt her stomach churn at the sight of it.

“You make it a habit of buying lonely girls drinks?” She had quipped at him with a shy smile.

A blush had warmed his pale cheeks, “Only the lovely ones.”

Her eyes light up when she spots him enter the room, his eyes darting around looking for her. She raises a hand to wave at him, the other resting her drink on the bar. He beams when he spots her and dodges his way through the room as she fixes her glasses and pushes a stray lock of blonde hair behind her ear.

He steps up to her as if he hasn’t seen her in months. “Bonnie Clarke,” he breathes, a slight Russian lilt in his voice, taking her hand and kissing the back of it with a smile.

She flashes him a bright bashful smile. “Hello Peter,” she says as he sits on the empty chair next to her, her hand still in his.

A blush colours her cheeks as he rubs her knuckles with his thumb, just as a single English teacher would at the attention of a handsome young man.

“I hope I didn’t keep you waiting long,” he says, flagging down the bartender. “My editor has been giving me hell this week, wants one article after another. I tell him there isn’t much more that can be said about the UN Conference, he tells me he’ll fire me if I talk like that again.”

Bonnie frowns, “Well surely you can ask him for some time off?”

“I wouldn’t dare. I wouldn’t want to want to anyways, love my job too much,” Peter chuckles and requests a glass of bourbon and gestures if she wants another cocktail; she shakes her head no.

“Not even if I wanted to spend some time with you?” She gives him a teasing grin, her hand moving from his to rest on his knee. She leans closer to him and whispers, “I missed you.”

He smirks down at her hand and then up at her. “Never would have assumed you to be the forward kind, Ms. Clarke.”

“It’s the American blood in me,” she says with a grin as the bartender places Peter’s drink in front of him.

Peter lifts his glass and takes a sip with a sharp exhale, “Ah yes, you Americans and your alcohol. Sharp and vivacious.”

She quirks an eyebrow at him, “We’re a lot more than that.”

He chuckles, “How so?”

“Why don’t we finish our drinks and go to your place, and I’ll show you,” she says, her hand travelling further up his thigh.

His throat bobs heavily as his eyes briefly travel down her body with a blush. “Of course,” he says, meeting her eyes and finishing his drink in one go.

Peter pays for their drinks and they leave for his apartment that wasn’t too far away, his arm wrapped around her back the entire way.

When they make it inside his building, she pushes him up against the wall in the empty stairwe>ll and kisses him hard, his day growth of stubble rubbing against her skin. He chuckles against her mouth, holding her close and breaking their kiss, “How long have you been waiting to do that?”

“Since the last time you moaned my name,” she says with a devious grin, her hand slipping from his chest to his belt.

He hisses and grabs her hand with a grin, “Patience, Ms. Clarke.”

She rolls her eyes and lets him pull her up the stairs with a laugh. When he finally guides her into his small apartment her eyes rove over every surface, taking everything in. She lets him take her coat to hang on a rack with a gracious, “Thank you,” and walks further into his apartment.

It was small and cozy; furniture tucked together like a puzzle, piles of papers, books, and knick knacks scattered about. Nothing out of the ordinary for a young writer in a big city.

“Make yourself at home,” he says, hanging his coat next to hers. “Eh, how do those Puerto Ricans say it? _Mi casa es mu casa_?”

“ _Su casa_ ,” she corrects and chuckles when he waves his hand at her with a charmed grin.

“Oh, you get the point. Please, take a seat. You want anything to drink?” He asks, moving to his radio set on a table in the living room, switching it on.

“Yes, thank you,” she says, sitting on his couch as music drifts from the radio speakers, tinny soft jazz filling the room.

He quickly retrieves two glasses and a bottle of Russian vodka from his kitchen, smiling crookedly at her as he sits nexts to her and placing them on the coffee table. “From home,” he says as she picks up the bottle, pretending to attempt to read the label, “My mother sent it over for me as a gift.”

“Lucky man,” she says smiling softly at him, allowing him to take the bottle from her.

He pours them a drink and they settle comfortably on his couch, his arm resting on the back of the couch behind her, her legs crossed towards him. They drink slowly and chat about his family and her lack of one, until they finally broach the topic of how he left his mother to move to America to work at the New York bureau of the Soviet newspaper _Tass_.

“I read your article about the war in Korea,” she says, taking a sip of her vodka without a flinch. “I had to burn the paper afterwards, you wouldn’t believe how much my hands were shaking when I had it, but it was worth the read.”

He hums, his eyes lighting with excitement. “Oh, yes? And what did you think?”

“Your grammar could use some work.”

He gives her a boyish grin, “That’s what I have you for, but what about the rest? It’s not everyday I get to hear a fellow traveller’s opinion on things.”

Bonnie sighs, slowly swirling the clear liquid in her glass, “I think the entire thing shouldn’t have happened in the first place. We just got out of one war and now we’re in another. It’s insane.”

“But that’s what life is, don’t you think? War. Fighting for scraps of this world to call your own.”

“By taking it from someone else?”

Peter chuckles, “Do you often have political debates with your students in class, Ms. Clarke?” Bonnie blushes and he chuckles again, “You should have been a politician.”

“I don’t think I’d last a day as a politician,” she huffs a laugh and pauses, tilting her head to peer more closely at him. “Were you in the war, Peter?”

His eyes drift away, exhaling slowly. “Ah, no fortunately. My father was though. He was a sergeant in the Red Army, died in Stalingrad.”

“Oh, I’m so sorry - “

He shakes his head with a small smile, placing his glass on the table to rest his hand on her knee. “No, it’s fine. We weren’t very close, I was my mother’s son through and through.”

“She raised a good man,” she says, smiling tenderly at him as he breathes out laugh, a blush rising above his collar. “Do you miss her?”

He nods, his smile drooping to longing. “Everyday. I miss home too. The summers here just aren’t the same as Leningrad. Too humid.”

She frowns, placing her glass next to his on the coffee table and leaning forward to cup his cheek. “I’m sorry I brought it up,” she whispers.

He raises a hand to place on top of her own, kissing the inside of her wrist. “Don’t worry about it.”

Bonnie stares at him silently for a moment, her thumb stroking his cheek. “I don’t understand it sometimes. The paranoia. Russia doesn’t seem so bad when you talk about it.”

“It’s because I love my country,” Peter says as she feels his other hand on the back of the couch twirling a lock of her hair, “and you Americans hate it. Hate the good things we have to offer.”

Bonnie pulls her hand away from his cheek and looks down, twisting her fingers in her lap. “It’s just...I heard something. Rumours. One of my students parents is a cop and...you know how parents and teachers like to gossip to each other during meetings. They’re worse than the children sometimes.”

He gently tugs on her lock of hair, “What kind of rumours?”

She looks up at him through her eyelashes, “That the Soviets are planning something. Something big.” Peter stares hard at her, leaning back against the couch with pursed lips. She panics, stuttering out, “I’m only asking because, y’know, you’re a journalist and I’m...I’m…”

His free hand grasps hers, gripping it tight, “Hey, hey, it’s alright. Breathe.”

Her chest heaves, she grips his hand and exhales slowly. “Sorry, I’m sorry. It’s just that...I worry, y’know? The kids like to talk all sort of craziness and with everything going on in the news, McCarthy - ”

Peter snorts, “McCarthy. What does he know?” He leans forward, ducking his head to meet her eyes, “Listen to me. I don’t know if the Soviets are planning anything. Whatever you heard? Forget about it, it’s probably nothing for you to worry about.”

“And what if it was an atom bomb?” She asks him softly, her eyes searching him.

He grits his teeth, “Ms. Clarke, if we were to worry about every little atom bomb in the world, we would never have the opportunity to enjoy our time together.”

She smiles slowly at him, “How many times have I asked you to call me by my first name, Peter?”

He laughs and bites his lips, “I like saving it for...other activities.”

Bonnie smirks at him, her foot slipping up his calf. “Then I’m going to start calling you by your last name. Forgive me, what was it again? Sharpo...Sharvi…”

Peter shakes his head at her with an affectionate smile. “Sharanovich,” he corrects her and a frown slowly shadows his face before he looks down at his lap. “My full name is actually Pyotr Stanislavich Sharanovich. I’ve thought about changing it to something more American, considering how everything is nowadays, but…”

“Don’t,” she says, shaking her head and leaning closer to him. “You shouldn’t have to. I love it just the way it is.”

He looks deeply into her eyes for a moment, silent and moved. “You’d like Leningrad, I think. You seem like the type of woman to withstand the cold. Strong.”

“Maybe you can take me one day. To meet your mother.”

He grins mischievously, “Which one?”

Their shoulders shake with laughter and Bonnie presses closer to kiss him. He braces his hand on the back of her head and waist, pulling her closer and onto his lap.

Later, when she’s lying on top of him on the couch, their chests heaving and their hair and clothes ruffled, she’s curls up next to him and watches the way he smiles dreamily up at the ceiling. She raises herself on her elbow, holding her head up with her hand to stare at him.

“Thank you, Peter,” she says softly, her other hand resting on his chest, fiddling with the fabric of his dress shirt.

Blinking slowly, he turns to her with a perplexed frown, “What for?”

She swallows heavily. “For giving this to me. Your company,” when her voice cracks, his frown deepens and his hand moves to cup her cheek. “Ever since the war, after my brother and father died...it’s been difficult. I thought it’d be better, but everything’s just...scarier. Everywhere I look, it’s all _red_.”

Tears burn Bonnie’s eyes. At the sight of them, Peter rolls them over until she’s on her back and he’s holding her close at the waist.

“Hey, listen Bonnieshenka,” he whispers down at her and opens his mouth to speak only for nothing to come out. Peter grits his teeth and looks away, struggling with his words.

Bonnie runs her hand through his messy hair, pushing back stray locks from his forehead and whispers, “What is it?”

“You were right.” He looks back down at her, his eyes determined, “I heard something...from one of my sources. A rumour from Brazil...about a bomb.”

She stops breathing, a chill running down her spine and through her blood. “A bomb?” She whispers.

He nods quickly, “Their intel is usually accurate, I’ve relied on it on more than one occasion. It’s just...you can’t really trust everything or anyone these days, and you were right; everything is red, but it’s not without a purpose. I can’t really picture the Soviets planting a bomb in the city, not after living here for so long and observing America’s wrath.”

Her eyes searches his, “You don’t think it’s true?”

Peter chuckles, “If it were true, then the skies would be filled with atom bombs before New York falls to dust.”

“How do you think they could do it? I mean they’re pretty big, aren’t they? I saw it in the paper.”

“In small parts, probably,” he sighs, and grins at her, “They wouldn’t risk sending it over completely put together, it’s too risky and we’re just too clever for that. We’re just as smart as you, Bonnieshenka.”

“I know,” she blushes.

He grazes her cheek with his knuckles, his grin turning soft, “But I want you to know...the minute...the very second I hear it’s true, I’m taking you far away from this damned city, do you understand?”

She stares at him and swallows deeply, slowly nodding, “Yes.”

Peter lets out a tremulous exhale, nodding and burying his face in the crook of her neck. “I won’t let anything happen to you, I promise,” he says, his lips brushing against her skin.

She runs her hands over his back and through his hair, and breathes out, “I know.”

* * *

 

Bonnie leaves him sleeping soundly on his couch, completely sprawled out and his breath smelling of vodka. She leaves a short note for him on the coffee table, but not before taking her time to quietly look through his drawers and stacks of papers and books, looking for something concrete she could use as evidence.

After a few minutes of careful searching, she doesn’t find anything, nothing of value to her anyways. Not even a scrap of code. Muttering darkly, she leaves the building and walks down the deserted street with her hands buried in her jacket pockets, her breath coming in misty puffs in the cool October air.

Her hands clench into fists, Peter’s confirmation of the rumours ringing true in her ears. Speculation within the intelligence community of an atom bomb being smuggled into the city had been persistent since the cold December of 1950. Nearly a year later, and nothing tangible had come up about it. Not even from Hoover and his little minions running amok around the city like fools. Until now.

Poor, darling Peter. He was a sweet man, if not a bit too gullible; the loneliness and paranoia of the Red Scare having gotten to everyone. Seducing him with the comforts of a sympathizer had been easy, choosing to do so had been proven to be more difficult, no matter how sweet he was.

She isn’t fond of this part of the job; it may have grown easier over the years to close her eyes and bury her true self deep within her being, but it’ll never stop her from wanting to peel her skin off afterwards. A job was a job, she just had to remember that.

Her pace slows when she spots a familiar car under a lamplight down the street, only a few blocks away from Peter’s building. She exhales and grits her teeth, marching towards it. She opens the passenger door and slips inside, closing the door behind her with a slam before Jarvis can move from his seat.

He startles at the sight of her, the newspaper in his hands crumpling and his wide eyes darting over her in surprise before his shoulders relax in recognition. “Oh, Ms. Carter, it’s only you. I had thought it was someone else...” he trails off, cowering under her glare.

“What are you doing here, Mr. Jarvis?” A crease forms between his brows at her American accent. She sighs and pulls off her fake glasses and the blonde wavy wig off her head, letting her brown curls drape over her shoulders, and just like that, she’s Peggy Carter again. She still doesn’t clean. “I thought I told you to wait for me at Headquarters,” she continues in her normal accent.

He purses his lips, “It was getting quite late.”

She tosses the disguise into a paper bag that had been sitting at her feet with more force than necessary, “No idea I had a curfew. Remind me next time, would you?”

Crumpling the bag on her lap, Peggy rubs the bridge of her nose, her shoulders drooping in exhaustion. Jarvis takes this as a sign to start the car and take off down the street.

After a short moment of silence, he carefully speaks, “How is Mr. Sharon doing?”

“It’s Sharanovich,” she smoothly corrects him, the words flowing fluently over her tongue, “And he’s doing lovely, thank you for asking. We had a wonderful date.”

She feels him glance at her, “Got what you needed?”

“Yes,” she answers simply, worry creasing her brow and her stomach churning.

He silent for a moment before softly asking, “Shall I take you home?”

“Take me to the office first, I need to fill out some files,” she says, sinking further into the seat, “And take a bloody cold shower.”

“Ms. Martinelli must be worried about you,” he says in that curiously knowing way of his that always sets her teeth on edge.

She swallows heavily. It’s nonsensical, to feel the odd sensation of guilt pressing against her chest when there isn’t any reason to be, not when there’s only years of friendship hanging in the balance and nothing more. Nevertheless, kissing a man while having her best friend at the back of her mind isn’t something normal people do. Then again, nothing Peggy does can be considered normal; she’s quite used to it at this point.

“Angie has a late shift at the automat, she’ll be fine. We’ve been doing this for a long time, remember?”

Jarvis stops at a red light in an empty intersection. “Ms. Carter,” he says with a meaningful look, “It’s nearly two in the morning.”

Oh. She hadn’t realized...

Peggy meets his eyes and frowns at him, “You should have gone home to your wife, Mr. Jarvis.”

“Duty calls,” he answers with a diminutive smile.

Her lips curl at him, more of a grimace than a smile. “You need a raise,” she says softly, turning to look out the window. “Remind me to tell Howard.”

She see’s his mouth lift in a pleased smile in her periphery, continuing to drive when the light turns green, “Of course, Ms. Carter. I’m afraid, however, that I can’t take you to Headquarters. Howard has new furnishings and equipment being brought in.”

Peggy nearly rolls her eyes, “And the old office?”

“Being cleaned out. Figured it was best to do both at night. Less trouble for traffic during the day I presume.”

“Of course he did,” she mutters darkly, “When will they be done?”

“I’ve been told they should be finished in a few hours,” he says as if he were reading a headline from the morning paper. “Just in time for your arrival in the morning.”

The new building had been Howard’s idea. When SHIELD had been founded along with the CIA in 1947 thanks to the National Security Act, Howard had decided the creation of their new agency deserved a fresh start. A fresh start being a pretentious new building built over nearly an entirely demolished block midtown. It had taken four years to build, and a lifetime’s worth of paperwork that she thankfully did not have to fill.

She had decided the entire thing was hogwash and his reasoning was only to show off their exorbitant funding, essentially giving Langely an exclusive symbolic middle finger. It was both all very classy and utterly immature. Howard had even made plans for a grand opening gala set to happen in a few days time at some lavish hotel. She wasn’t looking forward to it.

“Ms. Carter,” says Jarvis, breaking her from her reverie. She looks towards him with a quirked eyebrow, seeing that they had once again paused at an intersection. “Where to?”

Peggy sighs in defeat, “Home.”

He drives slowly down the streets, the streetlamps washing over them in flashes of light, a car or two passing them by. It takes no time at all for Jarvis to pull up into the long driveway, stopping in front of the door of the large mansion she now called home.

“Shall I pick you in the morning?” Jarvis asks her as she stares up at the house, the lights on in various rooms.

Angie was still either awake or she had fallen asleep on the couch once again, listening to music with a book or watching the television. A habit Peggy had come to quickly discover not too long after they became roommates.

“No,” she answers and turns to him with a grateful smile, “Take the day off tomorrow, spend some time with your wife. I’ll take the train, and yes, those are orders.”

Jarvis doesn’t say a word, just silently stares at her in a way that makes her feel like he can see right through her. An annoying habit of his, really. “Is everything alright, Ms. Carter?” He slowly asks her.

Peggy tries not to hear Peter’s words in her head, tries not to picture the city she had come to love burn to dust. She fails miserably, feeling dread slip down her spine and her hands tremble. “Say hello to Anna for me,” she finally says, and jumps out the car without another word with the paper bag in hand, closing the door behind her and marching towards the house.

Opening the door with her keys, she hears tires driving over gravel, the sound drifting further and further away. She grits her teeth, pushing open the door and stepping past the threshold, and suddenly it’s as if she’s in entirely different world.

Music is the first thing she hears, the sound of soft jazz drifting from down the hall. She smiles, a warmth creeping in her chest, and closes the front door with a small click, shutting out the rest of the world.

Peggy sheds her jacket and hangs it on a rack next to the door before looking down as was her custom. She spies the small wooden wedge that had fallen when she had opened the door, the light from the lamp left on for her in the foyer casting its shadow across the floor. She bends down and places it back in its spot between the crease of the door and the frame before walking further into the house.

She drops her paper bag on a table with a vase of flowers as she passes by, following the music echoing throughout the halls. It was here that Peggy could tuck away the Bonnie’s and the Ruth’s, carefully treading towards the light creeping across the dark floors from the open door of one of the lounges, leaving behind those masks in the shadows behind her. In the five years she has lived here, she’s come to rely on that.

It was sometimes strange to believe that Angie still lives here. With growing opportunities in the theatre, small roles in musicals and plays here and there, Peggy had imagined it offered enough of a salary between shifts at the automat for Angie to leave and find a corner in the world to call her own. Yet, she had stayed, still living with Peggy as if she still had something to offer Angie more than her company and a lavish home to live in.

Sometimes she thought...she hoped. With the way Angie’s eyes sometimes lingers on her longer than she probably intends when she thinks Peggy isn’t paying any attention. Or the way she always seems to wait up for Peggy after field missions or long days at the office, claiming that she worries. Peggy’s a spy after all, it’s her job to notice things. Or just maybe she’s thinking too hard about it.

Nearing the source of the light, Peggy peers inside the room which had been transformed into a makeshift studio, to see the top of Angie’s head and her hand peeking out from the top of the armrest of the couch she lay on. She still can’t quite understand how Angie of all people manages to nap comfortably on the very couch she had claimed her own, the cushions hard as rock.

She chuckles when she walks closer, seeing that Angie’s completely passed out, with ballet slippers and a flopped open book on the floor in front of the couch - no doubt unwilling to miss a second of dance practice even after a few hours at the automat.

It had been Angie’s idea, not too long after moving into the mansion together, to make proper use of one of the many unused rooms of the house just for Angie.

With the help of Jarvis and even Anna, they had removed all the unneeded furniture in the room and rolled up the lush carpet to store them down in the basement, pushing the rest of the furniture up against or near the walls. It had then been Peggy’s idea to corral all the unused mirrors of the house to place along one wall, giving it the illusion that it was a real studio.

Angie had been so excited when they finished that she hugged the breath out of Peggy and casually kissed her on the cheek. Peggy would never admit it, but it had taken her nearly three minutes to recover from the burning of her cheeks. It had taken her another few minutes to realize once they were finished, they could have asked Howard to completely renovate a room into an actual studio for Angie, knowing he would have gladly done it for them.

Instead, Peggy had found they were both too proud and happy about their own creation to ask him for anything, nor to ask him for anything more than he had already given. God knows what he would have expected from them otherwise, she’s already threatened him enough in regards to Angie and in turn those threats had garnered her smarmy knowing smirks and quips from Howard.

She walks further into the room to the table near the wall toppled with a radio and a record player, sitting next to a large bookcase filled with books and records. When she turns off the radio with a small click and the room now devoid of the sound of brass and smoky crooners, Peggy can only hear the sound of Angie’s deep breathing filling the room.

She smiles down affectionately at Angie, curled up on the couch with one arm stretched above her head and the other curled against her chest. She moves to sit down next to her, her hand coming to carefully rest on Angie’s shoulder with some hesitation.

“Angie,” she whispers, leaning in close and grins when a crease slowly forms between Angie’s brow. She gently shakes her shoulders, “Angie. Wake up, darling.”

The hand curled up against Angie’s chest suddenly flings towards her, her hand flopping against Peggy's face. “Shh,” Angie says, her hand finding Peggy’s mouth and covering it with her fingers. “Five more minutes.”

A blush creeps up Peggy’s neck as she chuckles, grasping Angie’s offending hand away from her face to hold in her lap. “It’s time to go to bed.”

“Whaddya think I’m doing, English?” Angie drawls with a yawn, “If I wanna move, I’ll move.”

Peggy sighs, “You’d think having your own grand bedroom in a grand house, you’d actually use it.”

“Look who's talkin’, I ain’t the one strollin’ home in the dead’a night on a weekday,” Angie mutters, her Brooklyn accent coming in thicker in her exhaustion, making Peggy chuckle.

“I told you what this job entails, Angie. I explained all that I could to you.”

“Doesn’t mean I hafta like it,” she frowns.

“I never said you had to,” Peggy says, grinning fondly. “Five years and you’ve still learned nothing,”

“Five years and you still can’t tell the time,” Angie snarks, pulling her hand away to curl up deeper in the couch. “You’d figure now that you’re some big hotshot Director and all, you’d get some kinda leverage to come home in time for dinner…”

“Quite the opposite, I’m afraid,” Peggy softly replies.

Angie continues to grumble into the couch, her voice muffled, “What did I even get you that clock for your fancy new job for?”

“Darling, it doesn’t even work.”

“That’s the point ya damn idiot, how else are you supposta wonder what the time is?”

She shakes her head. “I have no idea how that’s supposed to work.”

“And here I thought you were the smarter one.”

Peggy chuckles, “You’re smart in your own way.”

“Don’t tryta butter me up, I see what you’re doin’,” Angie scowls.

“You’re an awful grump when you’re tired, you know that?” Peggy asks and fondly shakes her head when Angie only grunts in response. She moves to her feet and holds out her hand for Angie to take, “Come on, you’re tired and you have work tomorrow, don’t you?”

Angie snorts and finally peaks open one eye to glower at Peggy, “You kiddin’ me? D’you even know what day it is tomorrow?”

“It already is tomo - “

“Jus’ say it, you goon.”

“October 3rd.”

“Exactly. It’s the pennant. You think I’m gonna work a coupla lousy hours at the automat when my entire existence rests on the Dodgers winnin’ tomorrow?”

Peggy smirks, “Your dramatics also increase tenfold. Have I told you that yet too?”

Angie rolls her eyes and abruptly sits up, playfully pushing away Peggy’s offered hand to grab her slippers and what Peggy now recognized as the book for _The Importance of Being Earnest_ off the floor. “I have no idea what you’re talkin’ about, English,” Angie says with a casual shrug and stands up.

When she sways on her feet, Peggy grasps her arms to hold her steady and contains her sharp inhale when she realizes just how close they’re standing.

Angie suddenly frowns and leans even closer to Peggy, sniffing lowly before looking up at her with narrowed eyes, “You smell.”

Peggy’s mouth goes dry and her heart pounds against her ribcage, leaning her shoulders slightly away from Angie’s too close face, “Um, I do?” Angie hums softly and slowly nods, “Of what?”

“Cologne,” she replies with an imperceptible smirk.

She blinks, “Oh, um...I went out on a date.”

Angie snorts and quirks an eyebrow, “A date? That’s why you’re late? And you didn’t even tell me?” Before Peggy can even respond, Angie rolls her eyes and turns up her nose in a haughty manner, spinning on her heels to walk away. “Coulda gotten me a date too. Does he have a brother?”

She swallows heavily, “No.”

Angie pauses and spins around to face her with a mysterious twinkle in her eyes, “Did you have fun at least?”

And just like that, the dark shadows of the world outside their home creep in her vision, twisting her gut like a knife. “A blast,” she answers simply, allowing the way Angie responds with a less than impressed smirk before walking out the room with more sway in her hips as usual to push away those shadows.

Bonnie Clarke’s secrets had no ties here, and nor would Peggy ever allow it.

* * *

 

Peggy doesn’t get to see Angie the next morning. Her bedroom door has been still tightly shut before she left for work; no doubt still asleep after having been awake for so long the previous night. Peggy instead spends most of her morning in the conference room at the new Headquarters, affectionately nicknamed The Hive by many operatives, divulging what Bonnie had discovered from a Soviet journalist informer to a room full of horrified Directorate Officers.

The room is dead silent when she finishes her report on Operation Reaper, quiet enough to hear the howling wind from outside the windows in the new tall building.

“Well,” blurts out one SHIELD officer, Ada Fischer, breaking the silence with a shudder. “I guess we can all kiss our asses goodbye.”

“It won’t come to that,” she says, her voice stern. “He was hesitant to officially confirm.”

“For all we know, this could be a ruse and we’re all just wasting our resources, running around like headless chickens,” grumbles another, an old SSR officer named Konstantyn Edelberg

“What about the Feds?” Daniel offers, leaning against the table with a heavy frown, “It can’t be a coincidence that they got something similar.”

“What they have is breadcrumbs,” Peggy says, her patience wearing thin. “We have an asset who informs the MGB of our local government’s secrets with codes through his articles, and could very well be in on the operation for all we know. He knows more than he’s letting on.”

It’s either a bloody miracle or the way she’s glowering at them all that has none of them asking how exactly Bonnie managed to extract the information from Peter. The job has its prices, but being nearly unquestionable is not one of them.

“Shall we place a surveillance team on him, Madame?” Asks Officer Lemaire, her mouth curling up into a devious grin.

Peggy nods at her, “Get a team ready as soon as possible.”

Lemaire leans back in her chair, looking pleased with herself. She was an odd, if not a very much welcome addition to the little group they had cobbled together over the years; Peggy had recruited the veteran Resistance member from Paris not too long ago, having worked with Lemaire before during her time in the Resistance back in ‘39.

While more than half of the group having been recruited through Colonel Phillips and Howard from the military and science community, Peggy had gathered her own ragtag lot from her travels across Europe and North America during the war, recruiting the most competent members she could find. They had all agreed immediately to join her in New York and head various departments of SHIELD with their expertise, all of them familiar with her work in the Howling Commandos and eager to do their part.

They all look up at her now with bated expectations in a conference room with too large windows and no fresh air to breathe.

“The rest of you,” she continues, swallowing heavily. “Keep this silent. This is Level 8. The less people know, the less panic there’ll be. The only people I want knowing of this is your teams I deem acceptable for the magnitude of fragile intelligence this operation wields. In the meantime, I want you all working around the clock to discover the truth of this. Get the borders and customs agents checking every strange package with diplomatic seals, and eyes on every single Warsaw Pact consulate attending the UN Conference in the upcoming weeks, especially the Soviet consulate.”

“Got it, boss,” Lemaire playfully salutes her as she writes down notes on a pad.

“Who is the Soviet consulate, anyways?” Daniel flips through one of the files piled in front of him. “What happened to the last one?”

“Sergei Semak,” officer Arthur Glenn answers, an scotsman with dark skin, “The last one dropped dead from a stroke. This one, the ruddy bastard, has a history of playing with the Cheka. Don’t trust him one bit.”

“You trust no one, Glenn,” Lemaire smirks.

“Aye lass,” Glenn leans over the table with a toothy grin, “and I see you trusting no one either, _Mayer_.”

“I trust the boss.”

“The boss,” Peggy interrupts them with a sharp glare, her voice overpowering their voices, “Would like you all to stop squabbling like children and get to work.” The subdued pair lean back in their seats with bashful grins while the rest of the Directorates shift awkwardly in their seats. She quirks an eyebrow at them all, “Well?” She barks.

Immediately they all jump to their feet with their files and folders in hand, rushing out the room with respectful nods her way. When the last of them trickle out as she fixes her folders, a small mischievous grin teases her lips when she stands from her seat.

“You like scaring them, don’t you?”

She turns around and meets Daniel’s amused smile, leaning on his crutch as he waits for her by the door. Peggy rolls her eyes with a chuckle, “It’s not my fault Phillip’s and Stark’s recruits can’t seem to handle a woman ordering them around.”

“It’s the eyes, they get terrifying sometimes.”

“That sounds absolutely ridiculous,” she says as they exit the room together and walk down the hall. “Are you sure it doesn’t have to do with the fact that none of them are in my position?”

“What? Giving innocent folks rabid dog eyes?” He says and chuckles when she glares at him, “There it is. If I had known you’d be this intimidating as Director, I’d have joined the CIA.”

“Do you want me to fire you?” She ribs with a smirk as they reach the elevators and pushes the button to go up, “I’ll gladly ship you over to Langely if that’s what you want. Or maybe the FBI? I’m sure they can find use of your talents.”

Daniel snorts, “You’re not going to want to fire me after we finish this operation, which speaking of,” he says as the doors open and they enter, pressing the button for their separate floors. Peggy’s eyebrows turn down when Daniel’s face turn serious in the empty cart, “I have something to show you. Privately in your office, if you don’t mind.”

She frowns at him, “Something to do with Reaper?”

He nods his head to the side, “Possibly.”

She nods as the elevator doors open to the analysts offices, “Get what you need and meet me up in my office in ten minutes.”

“Yes ma’am,” he says, shuffling out the lift with a nod.

The rest of the way up to her office is both short and way too long for comfort, with Peggy exiting the elevator and striding past offices and desks with the tenacity that still has her staff, without failure, ducking their heads back down to their desks when she marches by. 

When she reaches her secretary’s desk in front of her office, the young woman looks up expectantly with a smile, “How’d it go, ma’am?”

“Wonderful as usual, Ms. Himura,” Peggy dryly quips

She chuckles, leaning forward and resting her arms on her desk, “Mr. Stark cause a ruckus again?”

Peggy rolls her eyes, “Fortunately no. He didn’t even bother attend.”

Himura frowns, “I did send him a message.” She abruptly starts going through the files and papers piled on a corner of her desk, muttering, “I know I sent him one, where are those logs?”

“It’s alright, Ms. Himura,” Peggy chuckles, smiling down at the woman, “He’ll figure it out sooner or later and come ambling in my office with no prior warning as usual.”

“I’ll do my best to warn you anyways.”

They share a smirk, the pair both used to Howard’s unexpected visits to Peggy’s office. She was more than impressed with the secretary and her remarkable ability to balance managing Peggy’s absurd workload plus Howard’s unwanted flirting. She had introduced herself with her full name, Cho Himura, to Peggy during her interview with a firm handshake, and sat down as if she weren’t intimidated by the fact that she was a Japanese woman applying to be the secretary of the Director of an international intelligence agency. Peggy had liked her instantly.

“Where is Stark, anyways?”

“Last I heard he was in his lab.”

“He may as well actually live there for the amount of time he spends down there,” Peggy shakes her head and pushes off Cho’s desk to enter her office, “Send him another message, would you?” Cho’s already picking up the phone receiver before Peggy can finish her request, “And please send in Agent Sousa when he arrives and no one else. We’re not to be disturbed.”

“Sure thing,” Cho says, already dialing Howard’s lab as Peggy opens her office door. “By the way, Colonel Phillips’ office called, said to expect his arrival from Washington in a day or two. Oh, and I brewed some coffee for you. Should still be warm, hopefully.”

Peggy grins, “You’re a life saver, Ms. Himura.”

“Just part of the job, ma’am,” Cho calls back to her with a pleased grin.

Closing the office door behind her, Peggy slowly lets the air in her lungs escape through her nose and allows her tense shoulders to droop, giving herself a short moment to regroup.

After a brief moment, she runs a hand through her hair and tosses the folders in her hand onto her desk before she turns to a table tucked into a corner of her office piled with a coffee maker and boxes of teabags and coffee grinds. She quickly pours herself a cup from the already brewed pot, taking a gulp before even adding any sugar. It scalds her throat on the way down, startling her senses.

Peggy came into this job more than prepared for the burdens that would rest on her shoulders, but somehow she doesn’t think that one pot of coffee is going to last her the day. She doesn’t exactly remember how she began to drink more coffee than tea, but she was sure she could blame Angie for the habit.

Her eyes suddenly flicker to one side of her office where a bookshelf had been set up, still barren and dusty except for the lone clock that sits on a shelf. When the Hive had finally opened and the agency started transferring from the old office, it was the first thing she had pulled out of the boxes that were still strewn about her room, and the bloody thing didn’t even work. Yet looking at it now, the heaviness pressing down on her chest and shoulders seems to lift a few inches.

She still doesn’t really understand how it’s supposed to work. When Angie had gifted it to her not too long after Peggy announced she finally accepted the job to be the new Director of a new agency, she was perplexed at Angie’s explanation how the fact that a non-working clock was supposed to make her pay more attention to time.

“It’s a Martinelli family tradition,” Angie had claimed with a twinkle in her eyes. “I used to be late to church and dinner all the time, so my Pa gave me a watch a coupla years ago that never worked and I wore it every single day. Never was a minute late ever since. That is until I had to pawn it to get money for new headshots, but no one needs to know that.”

“How...awful,” she had replied, staring down at the clock in her hands with a quirked eyebrow and bemused smile.

Peggy grins at the memory and adds sugar to her coffee. She rounds her desk and sits in her chair with a sigh, placing her mug a safe distance away from the files she had dropped. She drags the files closer, opening the top folder with a large red _CONFIDENTIAL_ stamp on it to greet a black and white portrait photo of Peter and his files.

He was younger, looking more green and fair in the face with shorter hair and a barely there smile, wearing a full dressage uniform for the Red Army. Peggy purses her lips, an odd trickle of empathy and distrust dripping down her spine. She’s aware that Soviet men of age were required to serve for two years in the army, but Bonnie didn’t. She understands why he lied. He’s playing the game too, perhaps unwillingly at first, but wars did strange and dark things to men.

She reluctantly thinks of Steve. She’s been doing that a lot lately; the more the paranoia grows, the more Bonnie kisses Peter, and the more she thinks about Angie, the more she wonders. What he would have done after the war, how far he would go to stop the growing threat of the Eastern Bloc. If his strong insurmountable back would have crumbled at another weapon of mass destruction threatening to destroy his beloved city. If his face would shadow with disconcertion if she knew the things she’s done to protect it, if he’d understand.

At the sound of a knock, she snaps her eyes to her door. “Come in,” she says, and closes the folder, pushing it away.

Daniel enters, a file tucked under one arm and his crutch in the other. He closes the door behind him and sits in the chair in front of her desk with a dour smile.

“I don’t like that look,” she comments, grimacing as he settles in the chair.

“You’re gonna like it even less when you look through this,” he says tossing the folder in front of her.

Peggy stares at him in apprehension before picking up the folder and looking through it. She blinks, she had no idea what she was expecting but it wasn’t unsolved police records for murder victims she vaguely remembers reading about in the papers.

“What is this?” She frowns, flipping through the pages. “I thought you said this may have something to do with Reaper.”

“I got a guy downstairs working with me on the Venona Project, he made a connection to something from the papers and police records.”

“And what does,” she flips to another page, “Lucia Alessandri, shot in the head in her own home, have anything to do with decrypting Soviet codes?”

Daniel doesn’t respond, he silently nods at her, imploring for her to look for herself. She clenches her teeth and carefully reads through the records. Five files, five murders; one for each year since 1946. Eduard Aleksandrov; car bomb. Grace McAlister; shot in the head. Norman Sanderson; bomb in suitcase. Alessa Nichi; shot in the head. Shooting and bombing, one after the other.

She suddenly freezes, a light clicking on in her head. “The names,” she murmurs, glancing through the records again, her mind working to interpret the relations, “They all have variants of the same name.”

“Alexander,” Daniel says quietly.

Peggy hums, “Someone either really dislikes the name or they’re sending a message, targeting someone.”

With agonizing slowness, Daniel leans forward in his chair, the wood creaking under him, and stares hard at her. “It’s not just that,” he says carefully, “Look at the first letters of the names in the order of the date they were killed.”

A shiver runs down her spine, dread pooling in her stomach at the way Daniel sets his mouth in a grim line. She looks back down at the files and reads the names again in order.

Alessa. Norman. Grace. Eduard. Lucia.

Pressure builds between her eyes, her ears ringing with the rush of blood. “Daniel,” she chokes out, moving unsteadily to her feet. “Daniel, what...”

“We don’t know what it means,” he rushes out, holding out a reassuring hand.

Her hands tremble, flipping through the pages repeatedly. “What the bloody hell do you mean you don’t know?” She looks up at him, her eyes wide and incredulous, “It practically spells out her name.”

“We don’t know if it was done on purpose,” he offers cautiously as her eyes rapidly move over the dates of each murder.

“Daniel, they were all murdered on December 11th, that’s her birthday.” She drops the files, the papers scattering over her desk as her hands ball into fists, sharp wrath burning under her skin at the audacity. “That isn’t a coincidence.”

Peggy collapses back in the chair, her heart beating jungle drums against her ribs, her chest heaving unsteadily. “What does this even mean? Why...why Angie?”

Daniel slowly exhales, leaning back in his chair, “It’s just like you said. Someone could either be targeting her, or sending a message, or both.”

“For what?” She barks, rubbing her eyes with a hand, “Angie. Alexander. None of it makes sense, why would someone be targeting both?”

She takes slow steadying breaths, swallowing hard against a lump lodged at the back of her throat. Her hand drops from her eyes to her lips, her eyes glancing over at the clock on the bookshelf, steady and unmoving. Tearing her eyes away, she reaches out for her mug and finishes the now lukewarm coffee in one go before setting it back down on the desk with a loud thud.

“First thing tomorrow morning, I want you to bring up the man responsible for discovering this. I want to discuss this in detail with him,” Peggy says, her voice steady and low as she looks up to meet Daniel’s worried eyes. “I’d tell you to bring him up now, but I think....I think I’ll go home early today.”

Daniels nods, silent and understanding. She knows he understands her increasing affections for Angie, he has come over for dinner enough times to see the unwilling way Peggy doted over Angie. He’s one of the only good men in the city she’d trust with that knowledge and not destroy her with it. She’s lucky to have him.

He moves to his feet, bracing his crutch under his arm and turns to walk out the room.

“And Daniel?” She calls for him, making him turn back to her. Peggy knows she doesn’t even have to ask him, knows that he would never speak a word even to his ghosts, yet she must. “Don’t speak a word of this to anyone.”

He nods again, giving her a small kind smile. “Don’t have to ask me twice,” he says and opens the office door, “Have a good night, Peggy.”

Closing the door shut behind him, the room falls into silence; the suffocating and disquiet hum of Peggy struggling to breathe the only sound permitting in the room.

* * *

 

She leaves for home before the sun even begins to set, leaving Cho staring after her in wide-eyed surprise when she leaves, unaccustomed to Peggy leaving work before dinner unless it was for a mission.

The entire journey home on the train Peggy spends in hyper vigilance, glaring at anyone who dares to step within three feet of her, her teeth and fists clenched the entire way. It doesn’t help her at all that the trains are packed with the post-work rush hour.

When she’s finally walking up the gravel path of the house, her pace quickens. She barges through the threshold and shuts the door behind her, robotically replacing the wooden wedge and pulling off her jacket when she suddenly pauses.

Music wafts through the house once again, the smell of food filling her nostrils. Her shoulders drops, her spine crumbling. It’s odd, she still isn’t used to it. Having a home to come to after work, filled with the sound of Angie’s voice singing the melody of some musical she’s currently obsessing over as she cooks food in the kitchen. It’s all too domestic, too fragile. The five years that had been given to her doesn’t seem like enough, she wants to grasps the tangibility of it and press it close to her chest. How could something be so beautiful when horrors awaited her at every turn on the other side of the front door.

Peggy follows the music, Angie’s voice pulling the cords in her chest closer and closer. Nearing the kitchen, she leans her shoulder on the wall and a gentle smile finally curls her lips at what greets her. Vegetables in various chopped states and cooked fish lie on the island counter as Angie’s back faces her, stirring a pot on the stove as she sings. Her skin warms at the sight.

When Angie turns around, her brow furrowed in a concentrated frown, she barely even jumps when she spots Peggy, her singing coming to a stop with a small, “Oh!” Well practised after years of Peggy silently wandering around the house.  
  
“Hello,” Peggy says with a smile, her hammering heart ceasing to a slow beat at finally setting her eyes on Angie, safe and sound in their kitchen.

Angie beams at her. “Holy crap, you’re home already,” she says and marches over to Peggy with a wooden spoon filled with what looked like rice. “Here, try this.”

“I wanted to come home early,” she says before Angie all but shoves the food in her mouth, she frowns as she chews, “Is this - “

“Yes, it’s risotto and don’t you dare tell me again that it’s too hard, it’s supposed to be like that,” Angie chides, waving the spoon between them.

Peggy smiles affectionately at her, “It’s delicious.”

“‘Course it is, I cooked it,” Angie quips before turning back to the stove, stirring it once more. “Should be almost done now, just needs a coupla more vegetables and stirrin’.”

Peggy steps further into the kitchen, leaning her arms against the island counter opposite Angie who turns back around, picks up the knife and starts chopping up more vegetables. “I still can’t believe you’re home already,” she mutters, the knife her hands moving deftly as she chops, “It’s a damn miracle.”

“Didn’t really have much to do at the office,” Peggy says softly, unable to stop the way her eyes rove over Angie with affectionate warmth. It’s a lie, she knows, but she wouldn’t allow the serial killer threat to tarnish her time with Angie. Not yet. “It was fortunately a quiet day for me.”

“That makes one of us,” Angie grumbles, glaring down at the veggies, her chopping becoming increasingly violent, muttering in Italian under her breath.

Peggy quirks an eyebrow and drawls, “I take it the game went well.”

Angie ceases chopping and looks up at Peggy with a glower. “Do we have a baseball bat?” She unexpectedly asks.

“A baseball bat? No, unless Howard has one hiding about somewhere in the house, which I doubt.” She narrows her eyes at Angie when she exhales frustratedly and goes back to chopping the poor veggies to death. “Why do you need a bat?”

She snorts. “Whaddya think? So I can head back up to Flatbush and show Bobby Thompson how to really hit a home run,” she practically snarls, wildly waving the knife in her hand as she speaks, with clear implications that she’d rather use Bobby’s face instead of a ball. “They’re callin’ it the _Shot Heard ‘Round the World_ , can you even believe that? _Wait ‘till next year_ ,” she twists her mouth into a mocking sneer.

Peggy warily eyes the knife. “Darling, maybe I should finish cutting for you.”

“Nuh-uh, remember the last time I let you help me cook in the kitchen?” Angie points the knife at Peggy with a stern stare. “The event that Shall Not Be Named on that fateful Christmas?”

“That was years ago,” a blush floods Peggy’s face as she scowls, “and I thought you had forgiven me for that.”

“You dropped an entire pot of gravy, Peg. On Christmas morning. The morning of Christmas. The year we were hostin’.”

“Are you quite finished yet?” Peggy glares fondly.

“Hardly,” Angie rolls her eyes, turning back to the food with more dark mutterings in Italian.

Peggy pulls her lips between her teeth, trying not to smile when she barely makes out the word _Stronzo_. “I can’t really tell, are you picturing me or Bobby Thompson as you murder those poor vegetables even further?”

“Flip a coin,” Angie deadpans, gathering the vegetables in her hand and dropping them in the pot with a sigh. _“Porca Madonna, la vita che faccio.”_

“Don’t let your mother hear you talk like that, she very well may get a heart attack if what you say is true,” Peggy says, far too amused at Angie’s pottymouth.

“She never has to know,” Angie faces her with a twisted mouth.”Why d’you think you haven’t met her yet? You know too much.”

“You don’t trust me?”

“‘Course I do,” Angie leans her arms over the counter, “But my mother...she has her ways.”

Peggy’s face softens, “Is that really the reason why I haven’t met her yet?”

She quirks an eyebrow, “Why? D’you wanna meet her?”

“It’s just...the way you talk about your mother and family sometimes, you’d figure I’d have met them by now,” Peggy shrugs with forced casualness. “Besides, if I can face gun fire and enemy operatives, then I’m quite sure I can handle meeting your mother, especially if she’s anything like you.”

She quietly stares at Peggy, her mouth curling into a dim smile and slowly says, “You don’t wanna, trust me.”

Peggy doesn’t know how to respond, her brows falling into a small frown as Angie sighs and turns back to the pot, moving it off the stove to the counter to stir it even more. It isn’t the first time Angie’s shut off her emotions in regards to her family, Peggy would need more than two hands to count the number of times Angie has missed dinners and Sunday Mass with her family in the last few years.

“I’m not unfamiliar with family trouble, Angie. I know it when I see it. Are you sure everything’s alright?” Peggy asks for perhaps the hundredth time.

“Why wouldn’t it be, English,” she answers, glancing over her shoulders at Peggy with a small grin, “I got you, don’t I?”

When Angie turns back around to dish out the risotto into a bowl, Peggy feels heat creep her up her neck and cheeks, her stomach flipping. She allows a small smile to curl her lips, watching the way Angie’s wavy hair glows in the setting sun shining through the kitchen windows, hearing her hum a tune.

With dinner finished, Peggy quietly moves about to set up the small kitchen table near one of the windows with plates and utensils. When they settle in their chairs opposite each other with their plates full of risotto and fish, and their glasses filled with white wine, Angie beams at her.

“When was the last time we had dinner together?” She says, digging into her food.

“You act like I’ve been missing for weeks,” Peggy grins around her mouthful of food. “This really is delicious, by the way”

A pleased smile curls Angie’s lips, “You try bein’ in my position, English. I might as well get me a dog or cat to keep me company in this big ol’ house,” she says, her smile turning devious.

“You know I’m allergic.”

Angie rolls her eyes with an exasperated sigh. “Remind me again to ask Howard about makin’ a cure,” she says, taking a sip of her wine. “Wouldn’t it be nice though? We get a pet, and we can really make this place our own.”

“Thought it already was,” Peggy grumbles with a grin.

“I can just picture it now,” Angie continues as if she didn’t hear her, “We could even get a plaque to put out near the gates. The Martinelli-Carter Residence.”

“Carter-Martinelli.”

“Don’t you dare start,” Angie points her fork at her with a squint.

Peggy smirks, watching as Angie digs back into her food without any care in the world. It still haunts her in the back of her mind, Angie’s name practically spelt out in the list of murder victims, killed in the privacy of their own homes or offices. She can’t understand why. Why Angie of all people? But something deep within her thinks she already does understand.

She’s made many enemies along the way in the past decade, most of them shadows in the darkness or with their faces invisible within a crowd. The rest of them she remembers every twitch of their face, every glare in the eyes before she beat them to unconsciousness or shot them to their death. She thinks of one in particular whom she had tossed out of a window and onto a plane.

A creeping guilt slowly runs through her, chilling her spine stiff. She looks up through her eyes lashes, watching Angie contently eat her dinner.

“What do you want for your birthday?” She abruptly asks before she can stop herself.

Angie swallows her food and gives Peggy an incredulous smile, “Peg, it’s in two months.”

“I want to be prepared.”

“That’s sweet,” she grins and leans forward, “but the best part of birthdays are the surprises. You can’t just ask someone what they want, that’s just ruinin’ it.”

Her mouth thins, “Humour me, won’t you?”

Angie grins mischievously at her, “Where’s the fun in that?”

Peggy narrows her eyes with a grin as Angie takes a sip of her with a quirk of her eyebrow.

“Oh! I forgot to tell you! You’re not gonna believe what else happened today,” Angie suddenly exclaims, bouncing in her seat and beaming at Peggy.

“You mean other than the Giants ruining your life?” She chuckles when Angie rolls her eyes.

“No, ya damn punk. I finally got the call from Miller, they’re castin’ me in the play!”

Her eyes widen, her fork clattering on the plate, “Darling, that’s wonderful!”

It’s miraculous how long Peggy’s denied it, the way her heart warms as Angie’s exuberance fills the room, throwing her head back with a laugh as Peggy fills their glasses with more wine in celebration. She had been so terrified at first, and if she were being truthful about it, she still is.

She understands it now at least, she’s not going to lose another one. If someone wants to get back at her through Angie, she’s going to make them wish they were in hell before they do.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> voila! hope you enjoyed it, i'm super excited to get this fic out there. 
> 
> gimme ALL ur conspiracy theories :D :D :D
> 
> (ps as much as it pains me to say (i like uniformity too much), don't expect every chapter to be this long)
> 
> thank you for reading! remember, you can find me on tumblr at youngbloodbuzz and check out the 'black widow au' tag for fun times
> 
> -
> 
> translation (correct me if it's all wonky)
> 
> la vita che faccio - the life i lead


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ok so i lied, this chapter is longer than the first. i just can't help myself.

To say the weather matched her mood would be an understatement. She had arrived to her office under an overcast sky and the blistering wind of Autumn; it had been overall damp and gloomy and reminded her bitterly of London.  
  
Peggy had left at the same time as Angie who was also departing for her morning dance class after a quick breakfast, claiming to not to being slowed down by the weather or just because she landed a role in a play. It was charming, to say the least, when Angie had playfully saluted her in the car as Jarvis dropped her off at the Hive. And yet, it also had left her with a bitter taste in her mouth as someone as wonderful as Angie could make her skin warm by a simple gesture, but could also cease to exist by the threat of a madman.  
  
In between finally unpacking the boxes in her office she sips at her cups of earl grey and coffee, staring outside the high ceiling windows of her office, glowering as drops of rain dare to blur her view of the city. Understatement indeed.  
  
One by one, with unbridled nerves to do something that wasn’t just sitting around and brooding like a helpless idiot, she places books on her shelves and fills the cabinets lining her walls with files. She’s been putting it off for a while now, too busy actually working in the field to even bother with them until she couldn’t sit still any longer waiting for Daniel to arrive with his agent.  
  
They were already late. Or she’s early. She can’t bloody tell, not with the unmoving face of Angie’s clock staring her down. She glares right back, urging the damn thing to move.  
  
When a knock on her office door heralds Daniel’s arrival, she exhales heavily through her nose, feeling suddenly foolish with one last stare at the clock. “Come in,” she calls, straightening her back and shoulders.  
  
She turns around as the door opens, revealing Daniel limping in with his crutch and following behind him is a young man with dark hair and blue eyes, smiling politely at her with a folder in his hand.  
  
“Good morning, Agent Sousa,” she says, greeting Daniel with a short smile.  
  
“Morning, ma’am,” he replies with a nod, closing the door behind the younger agent. Daniel gestures to him, “Director Carter, this is Agent Ryan Fletcher. He works with me down in the analyst offices.”  
  
Fletcher smiles at her and holds out his hand, “It’s an honour to finally meet you, ma’am.”  
  
“As it is mine,” she says, briefly shaking his hand with a firm grip and nods towards the chairs in front of her desk. “Please, sit.”  
  
She takes a step towards her desk when she realizes Fletcher isn’t following. She looks back at him to catch him looking behind her and the boxes surrounding the room with a curious stare. Peggy raises an eyebrow, “Agent Fletcher, are you here to stare at the state of my office or to discuss your work?”  
  
He startles with a blink and sheepishly purses his mouth. “Sorry, ma’am,” Fletcher says and promptly sits in a vacant chair.  
  
Peggy glances at Daniel who had been watching with a small amused quirk of his eyebrow, “You can help yourself to some coffee if you’d like, Agent Sousa.”  
  
He gives her a subtle curious stare before quietly following her order to pour himself a cup from her brewed pot, leaving Fletcher shifting stiffly in his seat. With an imperceptible smile, she sits in her chair opposite him.  
  
“Alright, Agent Fletcher,” she leans back in her chair, settling herself. “Tell me a bit about yourself, what sort of mindless job does Sousa have you doing downstairs?”  
  
She nearly grins when she spots Daniel thin his lips and shake his head at her in her periphery, taking a sip of his coffee. Fletcher’s eyes flicker between them, “He has me working on Venona, ma’am. I go through records and files looking for patterns of codes and cyphers, connecting what we can use against the codes the Soviets possibly use now.”  
  
“Is that how you discovered this?” She says, lifting up the folder filled with record of the serial killer’s victims. Fletcher eyes it and nods, “Sousa’s already informed me of the connections and the names. I want you to tell me more about it.”

“Of course, what would you like to know?”

“We can start with the obvious,” she flips through the files and steels her face to keep a dark shadow from crossing it. “What makes you think these are by the same person?”  
  
Fletcher leans forward in his seat, an excited glimmer appearing in his eyes. “It’s more than just the dates and the names, ma’am. I went ahead and looked through more police records last night that I gathered here,” he says, handing to her the folder he had brought with him. “All of them were murdered in New York. Each gun shot victim had records of the same ballistic fingerprint on a .44 caliber, had the same professional sniper nest nearby, and each bombing victim had the same type of explosives, a ticking time bomb with enough power to blow up a car.”  
  
Peggy flips through the new files, scanning quickly over the more detailed records, “How did you even discover all of this?”  
  
“I was going backwards through newspaper columns that the Soviets used occasionally to send signals when I passed over the article for Lucia Alessandri. By the time I hit McAlister I thought something looked familiar.”  
  
She quirks an incredulous eyebrow at him, “You went through three years worth of newspapers?”  
  
When Fletcher gives her a self-conscious smile, Daniel slowly sinks in the chair next to him with a cup of coffee in hand. “He’s thorough,” he answers for Fletcher. “Why I recruited him.”  
  
Slowly setting the folder on her desk, Peggy returns her stare to Fletcher, “And the names. What do you think of them?”  
  
“Well, Alexander is clearly of some importance. The killer wasn’t only just specific with their names, but also where they worked. You’ll see in their files, every single one of them were connected to the local government in some way - whether they were a maid or archivist or an embassy officer’s wife.”  
  
A deep frown shadows Daniel’s face, “Could possibly be targeting someone higher up.”  
  
“That’s what I thought, so I went ahead and made a list of every single government official and staff in New York with the name Alexander for you, ma’am,” Fletcher points to the folder, “It should be in there.”  
  
Her mouth curls into more of a grimace than a smile, “Smart man.” Peggy swallows the bile in her mouth, clenching her teeth, “And what of the other name?”  
  
Fletcher’s silent for a moment, frowning. “To be honest, I’m not even sure. It was lost on me at first until I listed all their names together in order. It could just be a coincidence.”  
  
“Or it could just be incomplete,” she says carefully, leaning forward. “How long have you been sitting on this, Agent Fletcher?”  
  
He blinks at her, “A few weeks, ma’am.”  
  
She tilts her head, her eyes boring holes into him, “And why are you telling us this now?”  
  
“I had to know for sure,” he stammers.  
  
“Or you could have just waited two more months, see how it played out,” she replies, staring hard at him. “Whether someone has a particular interest regarding angels or someone by the name of Angela.”  
  
Fletcher nervously glances between Peggy and Daniel, “Am...am I in some sort of trouble?”  
  
She smiles, shaking her with feigned innocence. “Oh no. Just curious how you managed to link these all together, knowing that they all happened within a year of each other and why you waited so damn long.” Fletcher shifts awkwardly in his chair, glancing away. Peggy leans forward, imploring him to look at her, “There’s something else, is there? Another reason why you waited so long.”  
  
Fletcher bites his lips, staring wide eyed at her. He slowly takes a brief glance at Daniel who gives him a subtle nod, making her grind her teeth. “Fletcher,” she snaps, his eyes meeting hers, “I don’t have all damn day.”  
  
He swallows heavily. “Agent Sousa also has me working on Reaper, ma’am. Analyzing potential ways the atom bomb could be smuggled into the city,” he says, shifting in his seat.  
  
Peggy hums, “Yes, I remember reading your file to give you clearance. What of it?”  
  
“I think they’re connected,” he finally confesses. “The December Killer and Reaper.”  
  
She blinks and slowly leans back into her chair, “Fletcher, if you didn’t have such empirical evidence towards the killer, I’d consider you a conspiracy theorist.”  
  
“With all due respect, it doesn’t seem odd to you? For five years the December killer has been picking off people - government people - with, not only variants of the name Alexander, but possibly spelling out Angela? And suddenly last year we get a hint of a rumour that the Soviets are smuggling a hydrogen bomb in the city when they’ve only had one since 1949?”  
  
“We didn’t think Hydra could mass produce weapons of destruction in such a short time either, and look how that ended up. We lost one of our best men,” Daniel points out. “Besides, if they only had the bomb since ‘49, why would they start killing folks in ‘46?”  
  
“It doesn’t just take a few months to plan out destroying an entire city, sir, especially when the Soviets were still making the bomb. It takes years of messages of code, gathering intel and planting moles for safe transportation - ”

“But five years?”  
  
“The ultimate long con. The thing about the Soviets is that they’re patient when they want to be, especially if that means making sure they destroy an American city without fail. If they could wait out Napoleon, they can wait out this.”  
  
She slowly exhales and leans back in her chair. It somehow both makes no sense and yet sound ridiculously plausible, but the casual reminder of Steve presses against her chest, distinctly reminding her what it was like to have infallible faith in something. She decides to throw Fletcher a bone, “What makes you think they’re connected?”  
  
“It’s...it’s difficult to explain. It’s the type of gut feeling you get when you know there’s just enough evidence to make it seem like whoever is doing this _wants_ us to connect them both, but - “  
  
“I need more than a gut feeling, Agent Fletcher. I need factual evidence and the payoff.”  
  
“I know, I know it sounds ridiculous, but think about it - either names could be a signal, could possibly the culprit we’re looking for to stop the bombing,” he suggests passionately. “The date even, December 11th, it’s just around the corner of the UN Conference - that’s when they could possibly finish spelling out Angela, like you said. For all we know, someone by the name of Alexander could be the bomber. Transporting and making the bomb - running a suicide mission.”  
  
The more Fletcher speaks, waxing poetics of his theories and Daniel’s face slowly paling, the more Peggy feels sick to her stomach.  
  
“Even if that could be the case,” Peggy says slowly, desperately trying to control the emotions on her face, “It still doesn’t explain the use of Angela of all names.”  
  
“A countdown maybe?” Fletcher offers after a moment, “Name of the operation?”  
  
“Why would they just spell it out for us then?” Daniel says, his voice rough as Peggy’s eyes drift to stare at Angie’s clock, a pit of despair ripping apart her chest. “It seems so obvious now, doesn’t it? Why make it that easy to stop?”  
  
“A defection perhaps? Sending us a signal to stop it?”  
  
“By murdering innocent people?” Peggy drawls with a sneer, finally peeling her eyes away back to Daniel and Fletcher. “How else to get one’s attention.”  
  
“Exactly,” Fletcher says, grinning as if if he had solved the daily crossword puzzle in the papers.  
  
“They could have sent us a bloody letter like normal civilized people,” she grumbles.  
  
“This could also be a trap,” murmurs Daniel, taking a sip of his coffee with a deep frown. “Even if they are connected and someone is trying to defect, we could be bringing in a decoy for questioning and accidentally set off the real signal, setting ourselves up for a radioactive Christmas.”  
  
At the very thought of it, the trio fall into silence, the air between them thick. A cold shiver runs down Peggy’s spine. No, she couldn’t let it happen, not even take the chance with it.  
  
“This can’t be kept quiet any longer,” she finally says, breaking the quiet and making Daniel raise an eyebrow at her in surprise. “Fletcher, I’m temporarily taking you off of Venona. I want you to work on this full time for Reaper, do you understand?”  
  
He inhales softly, taken aback at the sudden promotion before slowly nodding, “Yes, ma’am.”  
  
“I want you both to set up a conference as soon as possible and explain what we just discussed. The December Killer, the connections, everything,” she says, and with a grit of her teeth and an disgruntled exhale, she includes, “and also send what you know of the December killer to the FBI, the faster we find the culprit, the faster we may have a quiet non-radioactive holiday.”  
  
Taking his cue, Fletcher moves to his feet. “I’ll do that as soon as possible, ma’am.”  
  
“And you’re not to speak a word of this to anyone not part of Reaper without coming to me first,” she adds and he answers with another nod. “Very well, you may go.” Fletcher smiles cordially at her when she reaches out her hand for him to shake. She barely manages to grin at him when he shakes it, “Thank you for your work.”  
  
“Just doing my job,” he says, and with that he nods once more at Daniel and just as he’s walking to the door, he glances once more at her bookcase and turns to Peggy, “Um, by the way Director Carter, your clock isn’t working.”  
  
“Thank you, Agent Fletcher. I’m well aware,” she says as kindly as she can, and they politely nod once more at each other before he disembarks the office.  
  
When the door shuts behind him, a haggard exhale escapes Peggy’s lips. She sinks down in her chair and rubs her forehead. “Christ,” she murmurs.  
  
The office descends into a short silence, Daniel - bless him - giving her a moment to absorb just what the hell happened, getting up to make two more cups of coffee for them.  
  
Volts of terror and ire run through her, eyeing the folders and files scattered across her desk. A mess as usual, and somehow looking more put together than the images running through her mind. She pictures a plane, not so different than the one a hallucinating Howard flew over New York five years ago, flying it into the New York UN headquarters with a nuclear bomb in its belly. She pictures herself at the helm of said plane, nosediving it far deep into the middle of the Atlantic. A Soviet man by the name of Alexander pointing a gun at Angie, threatening to kill her if Peggy didn’t blow up New York herself. Slowly, she pictures the blank face of the madman melt like wax into a woman with long blonde hair, blue eyes, and a bright wicked smile.  
  
A cup of coffee is set before her on the desk, startling her spine stiff and straight. She glares up at Daniel whose mouth pulls into an apologetic grimace. He returns to his seat across from her and for the first time that morning, a small smile curls Daniel’s mouth as he says, “I thought you didn’t like the FBI.”  
  
She rolls her eyes at his attempt at humour and takes a sip of her coffee, “When they’re not spreading the fear of God in the hearts of impressionable Americans, they’re good for what they do. It’s Hoover I have a problem with.”  
  
“Still harassing you about doing internal investigations?”  
  
“Every bloody week,” she grumbles into her cup.  
  
They descend into silence once more, drinking their coffee in companionable silence. She feels Daniel’s stare from time to time as she stares at nothing.  
  
It’s not like she ever worried herself about moles, she still never trusted the fact that they were forced to bring in scientists and other defectors from Germany for Operation Paperclip, no matter the importance of keeping their skills from the Soviets. She trusted neither of the Germans or Soviets.  
  
Faith however, it seeped from every pore of her being. An infection born of the way war does to people in times of desperation, from the way she knew Steve would never let her down, and the way Angie looks at her as if she can do anything.  
  
Peggy knew the moment SHIELD was founded she had something good in her hands; the symbolic institution of everything Steve stood for, to protect people like Angie and to give them safe world worth living in.  
  
“Fletcher’s one of my best, you know,” Daniel says softly, finally breaking the silence and placing his mug on the desk. “He’s done a lot of good work for us, I wouldn’t have brought him to speak to you if I knew he was talking crazy.”  
  
“I know,” she whispers with a sigh, “Sometimes I feel like I’ve forgotten to listen to my gut ever since taking this job. I’ve been in this office for too damn long.”  
  
He smiles sympathetically, “But it’s telling you something now?”  
  
She looks up and slowly asks him, “Do you remember Dottie Underwood?”  
  
“Of course,” he says with a casual shrug, “Russian spy and assassin, the whole shebang. We dropped her case when nothing about her or Leviathan came up months after the whole debacle.”  
  
Peggy swallows past a lump in her throat. “It’s been five years, Daniel,” she says, her eyes moving to stare darkly at the files on her desk. “You heard Fletcher, the Soviets are not only patient, but they forget nothing.”  
  
She sees him stare at her with a perplexed frown in the corner of her eyes, “You don’t mean…”  
  
“Why not?” She mutters, clenching her fist, “I ruined her entire mission and tossed her onto a plane for chrissakes. That’s not something people like her or organizations like Leviathan take lightly.”  
  
He’s silent, regarding her with gentle sympathy. “We’re going to figure this out, Carter. I promise.”  
  
A sudden commotion outside her office has her blinking away the burning in her eyes and looking up with a frown. They both look toward the door to see it wrench open, Howard backing in with a hand on the handle and giving a glaring Cho what Peggy imagines he thought as a charming grin.  
  
“See, Flo! Absolutely nothing, just these two kids looking depressing as usual,” Howard grins, his arm sweeping around the room.  
  
“It’s Cho, sir,” Cho practically snarls, following him inside the office before turning to Peggy with an apologetic smile. “I’m sorry Ms. Carter, he just walked right past me before I could do anything, I - “  
  
“It’s alright, Ms. Himura, we were finished,” Peggy sighs with exasperation, a dull ache moving up the base of her neck to the back of her head. “You may leave us.”  
  
With a nod and one last glare at Howard who smirks and wiggles his eyebrows at her, Cho closes the office door shut with a scoff. Howard turns to her with a grin, pointing at the door, “I like her. Remind me to send her an invitation to the gala.”  
  
She glares at him. “Howard, if you harass my assistant one more time, I will not only give her a raise once she finally slaps you in the face, but I’ll also punch you myself.”  
  
He raises his hands in feigned defeat. “Relax, Director. I already got a date to the ball, thank you very much,” says and without any permission from her, he makes himself a cup of coffee.  
  
“I pity the poor girl.”  
  
Howard smirks at her, “Wait till you see her. She’s a knockout,” he says, adding a ridiculous amount of sugar and cream to his coffee, “So what dark pit of despair did you two crawl out of this mornin’? You look like someone got murdered.”  
  
Peggy and Daniel share a wry glance, pursing their lips. “I’m not telling him,” Peggy exclaims before Daniel can even open his mouth. She shrugs innocently when he gives her a flat stare.  
  
With a lukewarm mug of coffee in hand, Howard marches over and sits in the chair previously used by Fletcher and leans back with crossed legs, “So whose funeral do I gotta send flowers to?”  
  
“Yours, if you would only stop missing important meetings,” Peggy huffs, aggressively stacking the folders in neat pile on the edge of her desk.  
  
Howard takes a gulp of his coffee and turns expectantly to Daniel who grins at him and shrugs unhelpfully.”Unbelievable,” Howard says, shaking his head with an amused grin, “I’m slaving away downstairs workin’ on an anti-ballistic missile shield for you guys and this is the kind of reception I get?”  
  
Peggy buries half her face in one hand, “Daniel, please for the love of God.”  
  
“Thought you didn’t believe in God,” Howard quips.  
  
She lifts her head to glare at him. Before she can utter a threat, Daniel sighs with an appeasing grin and turns to Howard. “It’s a long story, Stark.”

* * *

 

  
It’s quite possibly a terrible idea for Peggy to have her face buried in numerous files about Reaper on the night of what Howard called his _Inauguration Gala_ for the Hive, and yet here she is - settled in her office at home with stacks of files surrounding her.  
  
Time had seemed to fly as it was only a little over a week ago she had her meeting with Fletcher and Daniel, and yet she’s still delaying on getting ready for the night. She still didn’t understand the need for another ball yet again as if SHIELD was founded just yesterday and not a few years ago, but Howard always found a way.  
  
Tossing another file on her desk about a possible lead on Peter’s source in Brazil, she rubs at her eyes. It was dangerous and forbidden for most, if not all, agents to bring home files from the Vault, especially files as confidential as this, but she’s turning desperate. Her best leads are drying up, one after the other. Updates from undercover operatives and analysts coming fewer and farther in between, and on a night like this – predictably – the idea of hundreds of officials gathered together like drunken cattle for slaughter is already setting Peggy on edge. She’s more or less ready to rip handfuls of hair from her scalp with frustration.  
  
She hears soft footsteps near her office, a voice humming closer and closer. “You’re gonna be late,” Angie sings, drawing out the words playfully as she slowly passes by Peggy’s office.  
  
Peggy groans and drops her head to her desk, “And if I just happen to not go?”  
  
“If you really want to risk Howard bringin’ the party here then be my guest,” she hears Angie say, her voice a teasing lilt as one of their many phones starts ringing throughout the house. “You think that’s him now?”  
  
She lifts her head back up to see Angie peeking her head around the doorframe, wearing a mischievous grin. “You wouldn’t dare,” Peggy narrows her eyes at Angie’s suggestive tone.  
  
“Wouldn’t dare do what?” Angie only shrugs and disappears back down the hall to answer the phone. “Get your butt movin’, English, or you’ll be late!”  
  
She’d honestly prefer to eat glass. With a chorus of grumbles and curses under her breath, she leaves her office for her bedroom to get ready. After a quick shower, she sets about to carefully apply her makeup and fix her hair in her ensuite bathroom when she hears Angie wander into her room and collapse on her bed with a groan.  
  
“My folks are killin’ me, Peg,” Angie says despondently, her voice carrying from inside her bedroom.  
  
“I’m guessing it wasn’t Howard on the phone then.”  
  
“Nope. Just my Pa confirming for dinner tonight,” she exhales. “The one party I gotta miss for family dinner and it’s the big one.”  
  
“I wouldn’t call it big; more ostentatious than anything.”  
  
“Tomato tomahto.”  
  
Peggy sighs, feeling irrationally guilty and yet pleased that Angie would be missing the gala tonight. “They’re doing you a favour, darling; saving you from a world of disappointment and tears of boredom.”  
  
“Y’know, it won’t be so dull if I was there with you,” Angie wryly suggests.  
  
Peggy smiles at her reflection, “Well I can’t argue that,” she murmurs to herself.  
  
“What’s that?”  
  
“I said perhaps they miss you.” Peggy says, raising her voice, “I must imagine they would like to celebrate your new role. After all, it could very well be your big break.”  
  
“Took its sweet damn time, didn’t it, huh?” Peggy can hear the smile in Angie’s voice, the radiating happiness from it.  
  
“Too long,” she replies strongly, very well aware just how long and hard Angie has fought to even make it to this point. Years of motivating and reading lines with Angie in the dead of night for auditions the next morning. It was too damn long.  
  
“It just woulda been nice to celebrate at the gala tonight,” Angie sighs, “It’s like that one time I lied to my aunt Eliana about some fella I was seein’ at the time. See, the thing you gotta know about aunt Eliana is that she’s a big gosp, the biggest of the family, has this thing about knowing everyone’s secrets and can sniff out a lie like a hound dog. You tell her who you’re seein’ and the next thing you know, she’s spillin’ the beans to the folks.”  
  
“Let me guess, you told her you were seeing a good Italian Catholic boy.”  
  
Angie snorts, “Got it in one. She convinced my parents to not lemme go to Coney that summer ‘cause not only did I lie to her, but she also didn’t like the poor kid I was actually seein’. And lemme tell you, I was itchin’ to go. I was so busy with dance and singing classes all summer, I barely had the time to go with my other siblings.”  
  
“Was he not Catholic enough?”  
  
“Even worse, he wasn’t even Italian. Practically family blasphemy. They were convinced we were headin’ out for a date at Coney,” she says if it was the defining moment of her life. “I was forbidden from ever seein’ him again.”  
  
Peggy grins, “Can’t even imagine the devastation.”  
  
“You don’t even know the half of it, English,” Angie sighs and after a brief silence, she pipes back up, “I just don’t understand why it’s gotta be tonight, it’s not even _Sunday dinner_.”  
  
“Maybe it’s due to the fact that because you’ve been so busy with work and classes, and now rehearsals, that you forgot to tell them about it for two whole days.”  
  
Another groan comes from the bedroom, this time muffled as if Angie had buried her face in one of Peggy’s pillows. With a sigh, Peggy moves to threshold of the bathroom, leaning on the door frame with a hand on her hip to smile at Angie who was forlornly curled up on her bed. “Darling, if I weren’t the Director and a certain someone wasn’t rushing me to go to the gala – “  
  
“Gee, if I had known that I wouldn’t have pushed you to take the damn job in the first place.”  
  
“Forgive me. I hadn’t realized you felt that way.” She smiles fondly, “You know we could always just go to the movies instead.”  
  
Angie snorts into the pillow, “You? Playin’ hooky? Don’t make me laugh.”  
  
Peggy huffs, “You’re really making me go?”  
  
“If I have to go, you have to go. As your best friend, it’s my duty to make you do stuff you don’t wanna do.”  
  
“Including involuntary manslaughter? I’m touched.”  
  
With a snort and a sardonic roll of her eyes, Angie lifts her head from the pillow, “It can’t be that b – oh!”  
  
She freezes, her words stuttering to a halt and her mouth parting when she looks up at Peggy, her eyes moving down her figure. It’s only then, with a crushing wave of mortification, that Peggy realizes that her robe had slipped open, wearing only her half slip, and garter and stockings underneath.  
  
Peggy swallows heavily, straightening her spine and lifting her chin when Angie finally meets her eyes, both their cheeks colouring with a blush. “Well, Peg,” Angie finally says with a teasing wiggle of her eyebrows, slowly lifting herself up on elbow to rest her head on her hand, “Do I also get a dinner with the show?”  
  
Peggy scowls darkly, tugging the robe tight around her, “Oh sod off,” she says, retreating in the bathroom as Angie’s giggle trails after her, hot on her heels.  
  
Her skin warms, blood rushing through her ears. She clenches her teeth and takes steadying breaths. This damn game they’re both playing, and yet neither of them willing to make the first move. Five years is a long time to dance and dodge each other, a long time to deny how terrified she was - how she still is. Half a decade of pretending she doesn’t think about holding Angie close and press their lips together with a sigh of relief. It were thoughts that like that that had her barely holding herself at bay when Angie turns away from embraces that had lasted too long with apprehensive frowns and regretful smiles.  
  
She understands – at least she would like to think so most of the time. Peggy sometimes dreamt that it was Angie she was talking to over the radio, desperately trying to convince her to give her the coordinates, that everything would be fine. _Come back_ , she would say in the microphone and three words she can barely even begin to imagine saying much less thinking piling in the back of her throat, choking her until she jerked awake on the brink of hyperventilating.  
  
Except the rest of the time, she dreamt of Steve’s hand pulling her close at the waist as they sway to music, only to look up from feet that should be stumbling only to meet Angie’s smiling eyes. Sometimes her eyes flutter shut as she leans up on the tips of her toes to graze Peggy’s lips with her own, other times Angie freezes into ice in Peggy’s arms and promptly melts into a freezing puddle of water by her bare feet.  
  
It was only a few days since her meeting with Fletcher, and already she can sense the increase of the intense paranoia she desperately doesn’t want to feel.  
  
Peggy gives herself a moment, and imagines just what Angie would wear to the party. If she would have let Anna help tailor a new dress, or drag Peggy out shopping for a new one, or if she would wear one she already owned. She did rather like the green dress Angie had worn to the last party she had gone to.  
  
When Peggy’s finished, she sighs and peers into the bedroom once more, seeing that Angie was once again lying back on the bed, staring up at the ceiling with a curious stormy expression. She finds her eyes slowly drifting over Angie’s form, her wiry arms splayed above her head and the bottom of her dress hiked up above her knees, revealing her bare curled up legs. Peggy feels a heat run through her, swallowing hard and letting her eyes run down Angie’s torso and down her bare legs to see that the limbs were lying on her gown.  
  
Peggy sighs and with a steeled back, she marches deeper into the room with her head held high. She places her hands on her hips when she stands next to the bed, “You’re on my gown.”  
  
Angie slowly turns to blink up at her, her eyes once again travelling over Peggy in a quick once over before meeting her eyes with a quirked eyebrow. “Yeah, so?”  
  
Peggy’s mouth thins, “I need it.”  
  
Angie shrugs and closes her eyes, “Then whaddya waiting for? Take it.”  
  
Peggy swallows hard again, the blush she’s sure Angie can see creeps up her neck. “Angie, please. I’m going to be late.”  
  
“Oh, now you’re harpin’ about the time, huh?” Angie smirks, lifting herself back up on her elbow.  
  
When Peggy only quirks an unamused eyebrow at her, Angie collapses onto her back, her head bouncing on the bed with a deep sigh. “Alright, fine,” she drawls, her teasing demeanor retreating into casual disinterest. “Only 'cuz you said please.”  
  
She moves her legs off the dress, allowing Peggy to pick it up with a grin. Peggy smiles gratefully at her and moves to the floor length mirror in one corner of her room. Taking a peek at Angie through the mirror to see that her gaze return to the ceiling, she drops her robe and pulls the gown over her head, deftly slipping it on. Tugging the gown comfortably over her figure, she spies Angie sitting up and swinging her legs over the bed, gripping the edge of the mattress.  
  
“So, English,” she starts slowly with a grin, “Word is on the grapevine that Mr. Fancy is taking Mrs. Fancy as his date, you plan on doubling up tonight?”  
  
With a smile at Angie through the mirror, Peggy pushes her arms through the lace straps to pull over her shoulders, “Doubling up?”  
  
“You takin’ that fella as your date tonight?” Angie moves to her feet, resting her hands on her waist with a smirk.  
  
Holding the unzipped gown to her chest, she looks over her shoulder at Angie with a perplexed frown, “I’m afraid I don’t follow.”  
  
“Really? I gotta spell it out for you?” Angie lifts an eyebrow, clearly taking great pleasure in Peggy’s situation. “That guy you’ve been datin’, English.”  
  
Peggy huffs out a laugh, “Him? It would be against protocol, darling. Besides, he wouldn’t last even a second there.”  
  
Angie casually shrugs a shoulder, “He seemed kinda nice. Coulda been good for you.”  
  
“I’ve barely talked of him,” she says with a knowing grin. “Come on, it’s getting late and it’s your job to zip me up, remember?”  
  
When Angie twists her mouth and gives her a flat biting look, she chuckles and turns around, moving her hair to the side and watches through the mirror as Angie steps up behind her. “You could at least start payin’ me,” Peggy hears her mumble, watching as her throat bobs heavily, her face softening as her eyes wander over Peggy’s back and shoulders.  
  
She feels Angie reach for the dress and zipper, carefully pulling it up, the skin of her hands warm even through the fabric of her gown. Peggy’s lips curl into an imperceptible smile when she spies the pinkness of Angie’s cheeks, her eyes looking over Peggy’s shoulders to watch the reflection of her in the dress.  
  
Clearing her throat, Angie meets her twinkling eyes through the mirror, “Is that all, Your Majesty? Or would’ya like me to shine your shoes for you too?”  
  
“I think not,” Peggy smirks, “Your last shining was rather rubbish, I’m afraid.”  
  
She rolls her eyes, “See if I ever help you with your dress again then.”  
  
Peggy chuckles, imagining other ways Angie could help her with her dress. As if Angie could read her mind, her eyes roam over her again with a soft exhale, her breath tickling Peggy’s skin, raising the hairs of the back of her neck.  
  
Her shoulders tensing, Angie swallows heavily again and steps backwards, pulling her lips between her teeth, her eyes full of guarded affection.  
  
Her heart sinks at the sight. It was never to be said that Angie wasn’t an expert at guarding her own emotions. She’d do this all the time, casually flirt and look at Peggy as if she were the brightest and best thing she had ever laid her eyes upon before locking herself up behind a great stone wall.  
  
It makes her wonder, and wondering makes her worry. She’s known the younger woman for so long, and yet sometimes Peggy feels as if she doesn’t know her at all. She doesn’t know how Angie curses under her breath in front of her mother, or how she smiles when her father dotes on her, or the way she argues with her siblings in rapid Italian, too fast for Peggy to understand. She doesn’t know what Angie prays for in church other than the success of her career and for Peggy’s safety, or if the last person Angie kissed gave her butterflies.  
  
Peggy looks over her shoulder, turning around to look fully at her with concern. “You look great, English,” Angie says warmly, “Wish I could be there to get a laugh at all the fellas droolin’ over you.”  
  
“I’m afraid over half of them will be too busy gloating over themselves to even notice,” Peggy says, noting Angie’s sudden enthusiasm as if that’ll distract Peggy from the way her eyes flicker with something that’s distinctly not enthusiasm. She tilts her head, “What’s wrong?” Peggy carefully asks.  
  
Angie sighs dramatically, “A lotta things, Peg. The first bein’ that I’m starvin’ for a good burger – “  
  
Peggy gives her a knowing look, “Angie.”  
  
That distinct look gradually deflates into something between a grimace and a smile at Peggy’s serious tone. Crossing one arm over her chest to rub the other, Angie softly confesses, “You worry me a lot, y’know.”  
  
Against her will, Peggy’s face twitches with a wince, “I don’t mean to.”  
  
“But that ain’t nothin’ new, right? I just…” she trails off and swallows heavily, “I understand why you gotta do some things for your work, I really do. A coupla years of livin’ with a spy does that to a gal. You just don’t have to keep things from me anymore, that’s all.”  
  
That ever-present guilt presses against Peggy’s chest, leaving her almost breathless. She swallows heavily and takes a slow step towards Angie, “But?”  
  
Angie takes her time to answer, wrapping both arms around her torso, concern etched on her face. “Something’s goin’ on at work, isn’t it? You’ve been comin’ home lookin’ like hell for weeks, spending all your time reading those files in the office, and – “ She cuts herself off, pulling her lips between her teeth as if she had spoken too much.  
  
Peggy slowly inhales sharply before swallowing deeply, a coldness running over her as her hands clenching into fists. She doesn’t want to lie, not to Angie. She doesn’t want to tell her either, it was too soon. She wants more time before everything could possibly go to hell.  
  
She had realized not long after her meeting with Fletcher how selfish it was to keep Angie in the dark about a threat on her own life. About the potential of her city turning to dust. The thought of it had crawled under her skin, eating her from the inside out, and yet she finds herself shaking her head.  
  
“There may be something,” she says carefully. “But we can’t confirm it yet.”  
  
Incredibly and horrendously selfish.  
  
Angie blinks, “What am I supposed to do with that, Peg? That tells me nothing.”  
  
“It’s all I can tell you, not even a quarter of my staff knows of it.”  
  
“Gee, now I feel real safe.”  
  
Peggy sighs and clenches her teeth and fist; she doesn’t want to get into this, not when she isn’t the only one keeping secrets. Except, she realizes with heavy shoulders, Angie’s secrets about her family don’t exactly hold a candle to a threat on her own life. “It’s protocol.”  
  
“Was it also protocol to tell Howard you didn’t want me going to the gala in the first place?”  
  
Peggy rears her head back, blinking in surprise as Angie groans at putting her own foot in her mouth. “What?” Her voice drops to a deep level.  
  
“Ah Jesus,” Angie sighs and rubs the bridge of her nose, “He asked me about singin’ at the gala and…he may have let it slip…”  
  
“Bloody idiot,” Peggy snarls, covering her face with a hand. She knew she should have never told him, but she also knew him too well that he enjoyed giving out extravagant gifts to his friends - even in the form of hiring them.  
  
“Peg?”  
  
“What?”  
  
“ _Is_ there somethin’ happening at the gala?”  
  
She’s borderline ready once again to punch Howard in the mouth, maybe knock out a tooth – that’ll keep his mouth shut for a while. “No. It’s…it’s complicated.”  
  
“Look Peg, I don’t gotta problem with not going to Howard’s parties most of the time, but when you’re specifically tellin’ him you don’t want me around, then I start worrying.”  
  
“No one’s about to get blown up if that’s what you’re wondering.”  
  
“That’s what I’m always wonderin’.” At that admission, Peggy looks up from her hand, her shoulders dropping as Angie smiles sadly at her. “But that ain’t nothing new, remember?”  
  
The corners of Peggy’s mouth lift to match Angie’s smile. “Don’t you know by now, I’m very well capable of taking care of myself? It’s been five years after all.”  
  
Angie lets out a breathy chuckle. “Yeah, and as your best friend of five years, it’s my job to always worry about you.”  
  
With a great heaving sigh, she watches as Angie’s eyes drift to the floor, looking almost embarrassed. “I adore you, do you know that?” Peggy softly asks her, carefully stepping towards Angie and ducks her head so their eyes can meet, “I know you said you understood, but I don’t think you do. I want you there, I’m always going to want you there, but I only told Howard that to keep not only you, but also your identity safe. I can’t just let everyone know about the people I care most for.”  
  
Angie’s brow furrows in perplexment, “Safe from what?”  
  
She clenches her jaw. “I don’t think I really trust the world very much,” she softly confesses, reaching out to loosely grasp Angie’s hand.  
  
Angie glances down at their hands before looking up to give her a slow sad smile, “That isn't a healthy way to live, Peg. You gotta trust some things.”  
  
She shakes her head, “Not if they’ll hurt you.”  
  
When Angie’s mouth slightly parts in puzzlement and concern, Peggy leans down and presses a gentle kiss on her forehead, Angie’s skin warm under her lips. She pulls back and her brow turns down when she meets blue eyes full of uncertainty and fear.  
  
Angie’s mouth flickers with a weak smile, slowly pulling herself from Peggy’s grasp and stepping back a few feet, looking more tired than anything. She tilts her head and stares at Peggy in that deep penetrating way that spoke volumes of Angie’s unease and makes Peggy want to strip herself of all her reserves, “If it’s that dangerous and you knew it was real...you’d tell what it is, wouldn’t you?”  
  
Peggy exhales slowly, her features softening. “Of course I would,” she steps closer to Angie, resting her hands on her shoulders, pulling her close. Angie rests her cheek on Peggy’s bare shoulder, softly sighing and wrapping her arms loosely around her waist. “You’d be the first to know.”  
  
She feels Angie’s mouth pull into a grin, “Other than your little worker bees at the Hive?”  
  
Peggy nods, her cheek rubbing against Angie’s head as one hand wraps around back and the other buries in the back of her hair. She sighs and rolls her eyes, “Whose bloody idea was it to call it the Hive of all things?”  
  
“It fits though, dontcha think? Worker bees saving the world for their Queen.”  
  
“If you start calling me Your Majesty from now on, I’ll have you hanged, drawn, and quartered.”  
  
“Wouldn’t dream of it, English.”  
  
It’s too easy, far too easy. To hold Angie like this, close her eyes, and pretend that her arms were enough to shield Angie for the world’s horrors. Too easy to picture her hands palming Angie’s cheeks and pulling her face up to kiss her worries away. The problem is she desperately wants to and that’s where the easiness ends. She doesn’t know how much longer they can go on like this.

“Would it make you feel better if we had an outing to Coney Island?” She asks softly, “Not only just to make up for tonight, but to celebrate your new role. What was it again?”  
  
Angie chuckles, the warmth of her breath sending shivers down her spine, “Gigi, Peg. It’s not the lead though; in fact, they have me playin’ older than I actually am if you can believe it, and I don’t even look a day over twenty-five. Something about seeming like an old soul; the young mother to this tall thin new kid all the way from Europe. Something Hepburn - beat me out for the main role.”  
  
“You’ll still be incredibly wonderful, as always.” Peggy grins, “So is that a yes or a no?”  
  
She snorts. “Whaddya think? ‘Course we’re goin’, you goof,” she says, her arms tightening around Peggy’s waist, “Jus’ don’t think I'm still not gonna worry.”  
  
“Never expected any less.”

* * *

  
  
The gala is well under way in the Waldorf-Astoria’s Grand Ballroom by the time Peggy arrives. She’s almost immediately overwhelmed at how ridiculous it all is, the four stories tall room filled to the brink of people. Many she doubts, now realizing that she’s finally arrived, know the real reason the gala is being thrown.  
  
Not for the first time, she feels the overwhelming urge to punch Howard right in the mouth. At least she’s in solidarity with Jarvis; he had, of course, driven her here along with Anna and Cho.  
  
When they had entered the room he stood stiffly next to her, looking dashing and professional as ever if it weren’t for the beads of sweat forming at his temples and his eyes darting about.  
  
On the other hand, both Cho and Anna beam into the room. “Oh wow,” breathes Anna, one arm looped through Jarvis’, “If only I had my camera.”  
  
“I’m afraid cameras were banned from this particular event,” Jarvis comments with a quirked eyebrow in Peggy’s direction. “Would have been a remarkable opportunity for your portfolio.”  
  
She scowls back, “Don’t look at me, you can inquire your fool of a boss. If he had told me exactly who was invited to this bloody thing, I may have lifted the restrictions somewhat.”  
  
“You’d figure that’d be a hazard,” mutters Jarvis disquietly.  
  
Just as she’s about to vehemently agree, Anna grins playfully at her. “I thought _you_ were Edwin’s boss, Peggy,” she says, making Peggy rolls her eyes.  
  
“I think that contract got lost in the paperwork some time ago,” pipes in Cho with an amused chuckle, barely even withering under Peggy’s cool stare.  
  
“Why do I even associate myself with you all, I’ll never know,” Peggy says not unkindly, a smile teasing her lips.  
  
Anna and Cho chuckle, Jarvis in between them wearing nothing but courteous stoicism, but she can see the devilish amusement in his eyes, the bloody man. “If only you had brought along Ms. Martinelli, ma’am. Maybe she would have offered backup,” he dares to say, a grin finally curling his lips when Peggy glares at him, knowing very well he was caught.

“Ms. Martinelli is rehearsing her new role before attending family dinner,” she says with a proud tight-lipped smile, and when Cho and Anna burst into exuberant chatter about Angie’s new role and missing her presence tonight, she internally winces. If word got to Angie from either of the woman at what she‘s missing in the lavish hotel, Angie was going to murder Peggy herself.  
  
They move further into the ballroom and into the crowd - another benefit to being the Director of a secret agency is that she’s barely accosted by any of the attendees, unlike Anna who has a reputable name within the photography and art industry. The only times Peggy’s ever stopped are by the government officials who knew of her existence - they either congratulate her or stare at her with blatant disdain, turning their noses up at a woman who dares to glower right back.  
  
Peggy briefly remembers when she quickly meets eyes with a silver screen star she recognizes but can’t put a name to. When Cho whispers in her ear with wide starstruck eyes that it’s Vivien Leigh, Peggy knows that she may not be fully at fault for Angie’s lack of presence, but she knows Angie’s definitely going to murder her now.  
  
She doesn’t how much time’s passed already, not with an excited Anna dragging Cho and Jarvis away from her not too long ago to find and be introduced to more attending celebrities and to take a closer look at the band playing on the low stage. She does know however that she’s on her third flute of champagne, Howard has yet to appear, and that there are whispers floating around the room that the President himself is expected to make an appearance.  
  
She rolls her eyes at that last one, knowing very well Harry was still facing calls for impeachment from his own government after the disaster of dismissing the General from the Korean War earlier that year. He wouldn’t dare step a foot inside a room filled with diehard American patriots and war veterans.  
  
The more she wanders and drinks, the more her stomach churns. It’s disconcerting the way everyone mingles together, unknowing and unworried of what troubles her and what threatens them. The band on the low stage play brassy tunes as couples dance in the middle of the room, and all she can think about is how much she’d rather get back on the streets and _do_ something.  
  
Peggy takes another sip of her champagne, her eyes slowly passing over the people in the room as she stands in one corner. Even despite the impressive attendance of celebrities, Peggy’s near tears of boredom in her own corner of the ballroom. She sighs, so maybe Angie was right; if she were here, she’d be by her side whispering dry commentary in her ear about the Secretary of Defense’s bald spot. She’d also be wearing one of her many stunning gowns that were also stunningly distracting. The woman knew what she was doing, even if she was for some ungodly reason unwilling to admit it.  
  
She takes another sip, glowering at nothing as if she weren’t unwilling to admit it herself even if she’s suddenly already missing the girl. Just as she’s seriously considering making a break for it and escaping the gala to head home or maybe to the office, a voice interrupts her.  
  
“Shall I get the getaway car ready?” The voice says beside her in French. “You look ready to murder something.”  
  
Peggy grins and glances over at a smirking Lemaire, responding fluently, “Or someone. Who knows, I haven’t decided yet.”  
  
“Not sure Phillips would approve.”  
  
“Last I noticed, Phillips is scowling at anyone who steps near him, I don’t think he’d mind.”  
  
Lemaire lets out an snort, loud enough for the guests near them to turn to give her an indignant stare. Peggy grins when Lemaire only responds by taking a casually innocent sip at her champagne. She was the sort of hard woman from the streets of Paris that would never find her place among the suits and gowns in the room; her short skinny stature, shock of dark curly hair, and demure face made up for her roughness and cunning.  
  
When Lemaire had taken a young green Peggy under her wings in ‘39, it was instant comradery. She had taught nearly everything Peggy knew of espionage until her recruitment into the SSR, and now Lemaire stood next to her, the pair of them in comradery once again against the sea of suits.  
  
“By the way, Madame,” Lemaire continues, “I’ve put that team together just as you asked. For the UN Conference. Their files should be on your desk in the morning for approval.”  
  
Peggy’s spine straightens. “Thank you, Lemaire.”  
  
She isn’t taking any chance. Not with this. While she had Fletcher introducing the December connection in Operation Reaper, she had ordered Lemaire to put a team together to surveill the UN building. Not just for the consulates but for any hint of someone with the name Alexander. She couldn’t possibly have eyes on every government official with the name, but she could narrow the sights on the potential target, and even possibly find any more connections towards Angie or even Dottie.  
  
“And the other team for the asset? How’re they doing so far?”  
  
“Got them working as we speak,” Lemaire says with a smirk, “Must be nice and quiet up there, your boy is a pretty habitual one. Wakes up, goes to work, goes to the bar, comes home. The most action he’s done in the last month has been from Madamoiselle Clarke.”  
  
“I wonder who taught her that,” Peggy deadpans over her champagne before taking another sip.  
  
A sudden commotion from the entrance of the room has the pair glancing over, unable to make out what it was due to the sea of people in their way.  
  
“Truman?”  
  
Peggy snorts, “Howard more likely,” the guests near them stir as they too take notice of the entrance, the crowd parting just enough that Peggy can make out Howard strolling through the crowd with a glass of martini already in one hand and his date hanging on the other.  
  
When he spots her, the smile that’s already plastered in his face brightens even further if that were possible, and he slowly leads his date through the room to her.  
  
“And that’s my cue,” says Lemaire, reverting back to English and downing her champagne, “Bon chance, boss.”  
  
She gives Peggy a loose salute with a crooked grin that Peggy glares at and disappears into the crowd, leaving her alone to face Howard. Speaking of the devil…  
  
“Peggy!” Howard’s voice booms, stepping up to her. “Hey, lookatchu, you look great, glad you could make it. This is - “ he gestures to his date with his glass, grimacing when he’s unable to predictably recall her name.  
  
When Peggy quirks an unimpressed eyebrow at him, the date in question just chuckles gracefully and holds out a hand to Peggy, “Josephine.”  
  
“Ah yes! Jo this is Peggy, Peggy this is Josephine,” Howard gestures between them.  
  
“Wonderful to meet you,” Peggy shakes the woman’s hand, barely bothering to look at her, too busy glaring at Howard. “Howard, may I have a word?” She says icily.  
  
“Yeah, of course,” he says with a smile and a kiss to Josephine’s hand, “Stay right where you are, I’ll be right back.”  
  
Peggy barely manages to keep herself from dragging him away from his lapels when he winks at Josephine, the pair stepping away from her as she blushes and ducks her head from Howard’s attention.  
  
“Stellar, ain’t she, Peg? She’s _French_ ,” he says as if it’s something to be celebrating.  
  
When they stop just a few feet away from Josephine, she tilts her head at him. “Howard, am I hallucinating?”  
  
He frowns, taking a sip of his martinee, “Why? Someone slip ya somethin’?”  
  
“No, you idiot. We just walked past whom I quite sure is Eleanor Parker, and now...is that bloody Doris Day on stage? Howard - !”

“Hey, relax would you? I woulda hired Angie to headline tonight instead if you weren’t so uptight about security.”  
  
She glares at him, “Does the concept of _secret intelligence agency_ mean anything to you?”  
  
“‘Course, I did co-found SHIELD with you, didn’t I? Remember who did the third of the paperwork?” His moustache twitches with a smirk. “Gimme a little credit, huh, Peg? Who said anything about a party only for you super secret spies anyways?”  
  
She gives him a flat look, “Don’t make me point it out for you.”  
  
He sighs, “Okay, so I wanted to throw us a big party with a buncha big stars. You’d never let me if I told you.”  
  
“Of course I wouldn’t, not when half of Hollywood is being blacklisted and accused of being communists. Perfect timing as always, Howard.”  
  
“Hey, it couldn’t hurt to get to know some of ‘em. See what they’re really like, the HUAC don’t always know what they’re talkin’ about.”  
  
“At this point, I’m surprised you didn’t bring one of them as your date instead,” she says, feeling a slow pulsing pain travelling up the back of her neck, “You couldn’t have left this for Christmas instead when it would be less suspicious?”  
  
He squints at her, “Y’know what? I think you’re startin’ to get a little paranoid, Peg. I think you need to lighten up a bit.”  
  
Her nose flares, “Lighten up - ?”  
  
“See, this is why you need me. This party is exactly what you need,” he says, waving his arm towards the rest of the room. “A little bit of fun, somethin’ to take your mind off things. Besides, everyone expects a big Christmas party, why not do somethin’ a little different?”  
  
Her hands clench in a white knuckled fist when he nudges her, “You’re probably regretting not bringin’ Angie now, huh?”  
  
Yes, but he didn’t need to know that. If Angie were here, she’d be over the moon with all the celebrities who mysteriously got invitations without her consent, possibly even making connections to the industry. However, she’d also keep Peggy from punching Howard in the face, which she’s seconds away from doing - the room full of people be damned - except Howard downs his drink in one gulp and stares dolefully down at the empty glass.  
  
“Looks like I’m dry,” he says a little too loudly, and gestures to her empty glass. “What another one? I’m getting another one,” he turns to Josephine and holds up his glass, “Hey Jo, another one? Another drink?”  
  
Peggy purses her mouth and sighs as Howard’s loud pointing and gesturing brings not only Josephine’s confused attention, but a few other ruffled guests attention towards them. Not paying them any mind, Howard smiles when Josephine nods with a small grin.  
  
“Do you honestly think,” Peggy starts slowly when Howard briefly turns back to her, “that a party of all things will stop me from worrying about the possibility of this city burning to dust?”  
  
Something flickers in Howard’s eyes, a small wince of remorse that quickly disappears as if it were never there in the first place. “I breathed in enough dust in the desert to last me a lifetime of worry too, Peg. Just think of this as a day at the spa, would’ya?”  
  
Her shoulders drop by just a few inches, “I don’t particularly care for spas.”  
  
“A day at the gym then,” he says, a grin fighting its way back on his face, grabbing her empty glass and backing away with a point in her direction, “I’m getting you a bourbon.”  
  
And with that, she watches as he disappears within the sea of dancing people, her shoulders dropping even further with a heaviness she knows he shares. In between helping the home front with his technology during the war and constant searching Steve in the Atlantic, he had come back from the desert looking for all the world like a lost boy and with a fervent need to disappear in his labs and build his mythical anti-ballistic missile shields.  
  
She feels someone creep up next to her, a waft of perfume stronger with every step. “Is everything alright?” Josephine carefully asks in a heavy French accent.  
  
With a sigh, Peggy turns to Howard’s date with a polite smile. “Oh, yes,” Peggy answers in French for the poor woman, “He’s gone to get more drinks.”  
  
She gives Peggy a surprised smile, “You speak French.”  
  
“Job requirement,” she wryly replies.  
  
“I hope your date isn’t as much of a lush as mine is,” Josephine says with a teasing grin, finishing her glass of champagne. “We already had a bottle upstairs.”  
  
“I arrived alone, I’m afraid,” Peggy says, bristling slightly, finally taking the time to take in the woman.  
  
She isn’t a celebrity by any means, but she was beautiful; tall and lean with short dark hair styled to perfection, dressed in an elegant black dress and plains of a face that was distinctly Asian. At this point, with SHIELD continuing to grow and grow with each year, Peggy can’t tell whether the woman works in Howard’s labs or if she worked at SHIELD at all.  
  
Just as she’s about to carefully inquire where Howard had met her, Cho bursts through the crowd and sighs with relief when she spots Peggy. When one of her agents follows Cho past the crowd to Peggy, her back straightens.  
  
“I’ve been looking for you everywhere,” Cho huffs, carefully eyeing Josephine next to her just as the agent saddles up next to her with a grit of his teeth.  
  
“Would you give us a moment?” Peggy says to Josephine.  
  
She blinks between the trio and nods. “Of course,” she says with a polite smile and walks away.  
When she’s far away enough, Peggy turns to the pair with hard eyes. “You both very well know no one is to know who I am, don’t you?”  
  
“Yes, but there’s a signal from the Hive,” Cho says, adding in a dark look to the agent, “He refused to tell me what it is so I can inform you.”  
  
She turns her stare to the agent who immediately straightens in his suit, “What’s your name, agent?”  
  
“Agent Davis, ma’am.”  
  
“Do you have a problem with my assistant, Davis?”  
  
He blinks at her, his brown eyes widening in surprise as he glances between Peggy and Cho, “She’s…”  
  
Peggy quirks an eyebrow, “You can work on that question while you lead me upstairs. I expect an answer by then.”  
  
With a nod, she catches the way his face morphs into a scowl as he turns away. Following him, she looks sideways at Cho who’s fighting back a smirk and sends her a wink. Peggy hears her snort as she follows behind her. They’ve been through this enough times that, while Cho is well equipped to defend herself, they both still take great pleasure in watching men squirm when Peggy calls them out.  
  
Davis leads them through the vast room and through the hotel to the ground floor, his back tense the entire time. When they arrive to the door of the security room, he turns to Peggy with a careful smile.  
  
“Just in here, ma’am,” he says, opening the door.  
  
When she doesn’t move, he swallows at her expectant look. When he sends a look over her shoulder to Cho that somehow manages to be both alarm and disgust, Peggy rolls her eyes.  
  
“You may return to the party, Davis,” she says, moving past him and into the room before looking over her shoulder, “Ms. Himura? Escort him, will you?”  
  
Cho gives her an imperceptible smirk, mischief lighting her eyes, “Of course, ma’am.”  
  
Closing the door on Davis perplexed face and Cho’s smirk, she turns to face the room to see that a smoking Lemaire was already there, along with two other agents and the hotels own security. She lifts an eyebrow at the security, and with an uneasy smile, he too leaves the room to wait outside, shutting the door quietly behind him.  
  
With a grin and a hand on her hip, Peggy turns to Lemaire, “Davis wouldn’t happen to be one of your own, would he?”  
  
“Perhaps,” Lemaire smirks, blowing out smoke. “He’s fresh meat, straight out of the Pacific theater application pile. Courtesy of Phillips.”  
  
Peggy sighs, “HR is taking their bloody time with that memo on discriminatory behaviour.”  
  
“You think those kids will listen anyways?”  
  
“I’ll make them listen,” she says heatedly, making the other agents in the room shift awkwardly, “Well? What was the call?”  
  
“Um, here ma’am,” says one agent, holding out the receiver of the phone to her, dialing as she places it to her ear.  
  
She’s transferred through three different lines and operators before the ringing stops with an, “Operations. This is Agent Schermer.”  
  
“Director Carter. You sent an emergency signal, what is it?”  
  
“O-oh! Director Carter. Good evening, ma’am.”  
  
“Forgo the formalities agent, what was the emergency?” She replies, practically feeling the waves of anxiety through the line.  
  
“It-It was a walk-in, ma’am,” Schermer stammers, “Folks downstairs says he walked right in bruised and bleeding, collapsed right there on the floor. He’s in medical as we speak.”  
  
He grip on the receiver tightens, “Was he identified?”  
  
“Yes, ma’am. He had his I.D. in his wallet, a Pyotr Sharanovich.”  
  
Peggy’s blood runs cold, her breath trapped in her chest, “And he’s still alive?”  
  
“So far, ma’am. They also, uh, found a Communist Party member card on him.”  
  
She swallows heavily. “Thank you, Agent Schermer, that’ll be all,” she promptly hangs up, a deep frown shadowing her face.  
  
Lemaire blows out more smoke, “Trouble on the homefront?”  
  
“Something like that,” Peggy glances to the two agents who stare expectantly at her until they wither and look away under her pointed stare. She turns to Lemaire, “A walk-in.”  
  
Lemaire’s eyebrows lift in surprise, “Defector?”  
  
“A warning,” she says and moves to leave the room, “I’m leaving for the Hive, you’ll get the update later.”  
  
Peggy rushes out the room before Lemaire can reply, past the security guard waiting by the door and through the grand halls of the hotel, her heart hammering in her chest. It’s too soon, it’s too damn soon.  
  
Marching through the halls and into the ballroom, her dress billowing behind her, she pauses and takes a deep breath. She can’t panic, not now, not here. Whatever reason why Peter willingly walked through the front doors of SHIELD had to wait, for now she had to find Jarvis. She pushes her way through the crowd, her eyes scanning the room for him. It takes her nearly an age, but she finds him and Anna swaying together near the middle of the room to a slow song.  
  
“Hate to break the moment, but I need to steal your husband away for a bit,” Peggy says to Anna as the pair stop their dancing to frown with bemusement.  
  
“A dance?” Jarvis says, blinking down at her.  
  
Anna smiles up at him. “No, darling. Duty calls.”  
  
“No, wait,” Peggy frowns, shaking her head. “Just give me the valet ticket, I don’t want to ruin your night.”  
  
“Ms. Carter, you can’t just hire my husband to be your driver and not expect him to drive for you,” Anna says with a teasing grin.  
  
A fond smile manages to curl Peggy’s lips as Jarvis blushes, “You’re a saint, you know that?”  
  
“And he’s a lucky man,” Anna chuckles and gently pushes Jarvis towards Peggy, “You owe me dinner.”  
  
“You have my word,” she replies, leading him away with a hand on his shoulder, “He’ll be back soon for you, and Cho, I promise. He’s just going to drop me off at headquarters.”  
  
“Didn’t you mother teach you to not make promises you can’t keep?” Anna calls back as she disappears in the crowd.  
  
With one last forlorn wave, Jarvis follows her through the room and out into the hallway to the elevator. “Do you mind explaining why you’re dragging me out for some mission in the middle of a gala?”  
  
“Not everything is a mission, Mr. Jarvis,” she says as they enter the elevator. “This just happens to be an emergency I have to attend to.”  
  
“Never would have imagined it,” he says dryly.  
  
“Oh shut it.”  
  
The elevator doors open and they march out through a corridor into the vast lobby, their shoes clacking on the marble floor. Just as the reach the middle of the lobby, Peggy suddenly pauses. “I just realized something.”  
  
Jarvis stops beside her, “Coats.”  
  
She closes her eyes in frustration, “We forgot our coats.”  
  
He digs into his pocket and pulls out the valet ticket, handing it to her. “Won’t be but a moment,” he says, and takes off back from where they came from.  
  
With an exhale, she rubs the bridge of her nose and walks near the front doors, watching the lights of cars pass by and all of a sudden feeling quite desperate for a long hot bath.  
  
A young lanky valet suddenly appears through the glass doors, opening the door enough to slip inside, letting in an unexpected cold wind that raises her goosebumps and sends a shiver through her.  
  
The valet grins politely at her, “Would you like me to retrieve your car for you, ma’am? Or a taxi?”  
  
“Car, please,” she says, handing him her ticket.  
  
The valet takes one glance down at the ticket number and looks back up at her with sudden anxious smile and pale cheeks that has nothing to do with the cold.  
  
As he disappears back through the door to retrieve the car, Peggy frowns after him. Just as she’s wrapping her arms around herself to hug the warmth back in her body, she hears the distinct sound of Howard’s voice echoing through the lobby.  
  
She blinks with a frown. “I must be hallucinating again,” she mutters to herself and when another call of her name echoes through the lobby, she groans into her hand.  
  
“Hey, Peg! There you are!” Howard says, stepping up to her with another glass of martini in hand. “Been looking for you everywhere, your bourbon missed you.”  
  
“Do me a favour and tell it I missed it too the next time you see it,” she says flatly, dropping her hand from her face to look at him.  
  
“Hey, have you seen Josephine anywhere? She took off on me like a bat outta hell a coupla minutes ago,” he says, twisting around to search the place, his drink sloshing over the rim of his glass.  
  
“Why? Did you call her by the wrong name again?” She quirks an eyebrow at him, “I’m surprised you’re so keen on her, considering the amount of women available to you at the gala.”  
  
“Okay, so I liked the gal, she knew what she was doing,” he takes a sip of what’s left of his drink with a frown. “And I’m pretty certain she liked me too,” he adds as if this were a rare occurrence.  
  
“Until you somehow miraculously managed to insult her,” she grins at him as he absentmindedly rubs his slightly reddened cheek. “I honestly can’t tell whether you mean to insult them or if it’s just rotten luck.”  
  
“How was I supposed to know she was fluent in English, she’s French!”  
  
“She’s bilingual, Howard, not an imbecile. You neither ask women pertinent questions about themselves nor give them enough credit.”  
  
He frowns petulantly, “And what about you, huh? What are you doin’ down here when you should be having fun upstairs?”  
  
In perfect comical timing, Jarvis returns wearing his coat along with hers draped across his arm. “Oh, Mr. Stark. Will you be off to the headquarters as well?”  
  
“You’re goin’ back to the office?” Howard rolls his eyes.  
  
“It’s an emergency, Howard,” she says, allowing Jarvis to help her slip on the coat and spying their car pull up next to the sidewalk.  
  
“Ah, well then why didn’t you say so? In that case I should come too,” he says and raises his glass, cheering to some inebriated ode of newly discovered responsibility before lifting it to his mouth, only to frown when he realizes it’s empty.  
  
“And leave your own gala?”  
  
He looks back up with a smirk. “You make it sound like I haven’t done it before,” he wiggles his eyebrows and pushes past them to the door as Peggy sneers and Jarvis blushes. “Come on, kids - nope! Forget my coat Jarvis, it can’t be that cold.”  
  
“No, just a light wind,” she says slyly as he opens the door and jerks to a halt, a waft of cold air hitting her skin and no doubt stinging Howard’s face.  
  
Smirking, she marches past him out the door as he grimaces at the biting wind with Jarvis following behind her. On the sidewalk, she looks at him over her shoulder, “You sure you still want to come?”  
  
His moustache twitches with an unamused twist of his mouth, “Maybe in the morning.”  
  
“Suit yourself. Good night, Howard,” she smiles, shaking her head as he gives her a playful salute.  
  
“Night, Peg. Jarvis,” he says and quickly disappears back inside.  
  
“He’s going to be too hungover to even appear in the morning, isn’t he?” Peggy says as the valet exits and rounds the car.  
  
“Is that a rhetorical question?” Jarvis replies with a crack of a smile as she rolls her eyes.  
  
When the valet hands her the keys with shaking hands, she smiles politely at him and tips him a dollar. “Get inside and get yourself a hot cup of coffee before you freeze to death.”  
  
The poor man only manages to nod, taking the dollar with a tight-lipped smile before wrapping his arms around his torso and disappearing into the hotel.  
  
Without another word, she tosses Jarvis the keys and they both settle inside the car. She immediately turns the heat back on as he starts the car, promptly taking off down the street.  
  
“How is it this cold already?” Peggy grumbles. “It’s only October eleventh.”  
  
Jarvis hums, “I do recall it being this cold at this time last year as well.”  
  
“Do you also happen recall the exact temperature too?”  
  
As they stop at a red light at an intersection, Jarvis suddenly tilts his head with a curious frown, “Do you hear that?”  
  
“Hear what?” She sighs, staring out the fogging window.  
  
“That...ticking sound.”  
  
Every muscle in her body suddenly tenses, her heart skipping a beat as she strains her ears to hear it, her eyes darting around the car - a dull rhythm, almost an hallucination below the sound of the heater and cars rushing down the street. With a grit of her teeth, she turns the heat back off and suddenly, it’s there. Loud and ominous.  
  
“Pull over,” she orders, swinging around to search the backseat. “Pull over now!”  
  
Ignoring the red light, Jarvis revs the engine and swings the car around to a stop next to the sidewalk. With bone chilling fear, she spots a curious black briefcase hidden on the floor, scowling at it, “Was that always there?”  
  
Jarvis mirrors her position to stare disdainfully at the briefcase, “I would know if it was.”  
  
Hesitantly, Peggy stretches and reaches over, carefully lifting it up to place it on the back seat, the ticking louder. Swallowing heavily and feeling suddenly warm, she slowly clicks open the case with steady hands, sweat forming across her brow.  
  
“Is...is that a good idea?” Jarvis stammers.  
  
“Do you want me to disarm it or not?”  
  
His breath hitches as he nods, and she moves to lift the top of the case open. She clenches her teeth and peers closer, the ticking suddenly filling the car with sinister intent when she fully opens it, the leather creaking under her hands. She curses under her breath, a hitch of horror pressing against her chest at the revelation of a complicated network of wires connected to some type of improvised explosive device and a large gold pocket watch, ticking down with only - she hisses in a gasp - nine seconds to go.  
  
“Bloody christ!” She exclaims and all but pushes Jarvis out his side of the door, following after him and dragging him across the street. They barely manage to dodge a car when a loud explosion crashes behind them.  
  
A shockwave of burning hot air blasts her off her feet to the ground next to Jarvis. She wraps her arms around her head, hearing glass and shrapnel fall around her and car tires screeching to a halt. When nothing else appears to be blowing up, she slowly lifts herself up on her hands with her chest heaving, staring wide-eyed at the car that now burned with bright flames high into the night sky.  
  
With a trembling exhale, she turns to Jarvis to find him also staring wide-eyed at the wreckage, terrified but otherwise fine - as far as she can see. She breathes out a deep sigh that leaves her furious rather than relieved.  
  
“Maybe we should have made Mr. Stark come along…” Jarvis croaks out.  
  
“Do you honestly think that if I wasn’t capable of disarming that in nine seconds, then Howard could?” Peggy says with a dark glower to the red and orange flames, hearing sirens in the distance as people stop their cars to peer at the wreckage.  
  
“I’m...I don’t know,” his voice catches in his throat, raising a hand to cover his mouth.  
  
Peggy suddenly feels a sharp pain on various parts of her body, stinging warmth seeping from them. She looks down at her hands, seeing the scraped skin of her palms and abruptly feels an urge to laugh. Those gut instincts may have payed off tonight in some sort of sick abstract way, but Angie was still definitely going to kill her.


End file.
